Ghost Ship
by Ancastar
Summary: Set prior to the Expanse, Enterprise is sent on a rescue mission that turns into a search for one of their own.
1. Chapter 1

**Ghost Ship**

**by Ancastar**

No one belongs to me. Yet, like so many other fic writers, I'd certainly treat them a lot better than their creators if given the chance. Credit goes to Paramount. No profit is being made.

**Rating:** PG – (Pretty mild really. Maybe the occasional cuss word, nothing more.)

Friendship (w/perhaps a dash of UST), Angst, Drama

**Spoilers:** Strangely for the movie "The Others". I give away a pretty big plot point right at the beginning of the story.

Please feel free to archive wherever you like. All I ask is that my name remain attached to the story. Thanks very much for reading. Reviews/feedback would be appreciated. This is my first attempt at Enterprise fic.

Set prior to the Expanse, Enterprise is sent on a rescue mission that turns into a search for one of their own.

* * *

"I can't believe you didn't like the movie."

"I did not say I did not like it. I said I did not find it suspenseful."

Ensign Hoshi Sato had to bite back a smile at the look such an innocent comment prompted on Commander Trip Tucker's face. To the amusement of much of Enterprise's crew, the commander had made it a kind of unspoken mission to introduce Sub-Commander T'Pol to the finer points of classic Earth pop culture, the operation largely centered around American cinema of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. He seemed to take it as a personal affront whenever she was not suitably diverted.

"I found it plenty scary," Ensign Travis Mayweather offered as the foursome worked to clear the rows of seats and bring the mess hall back to its usual configuration. "It had all the classic ingredients. But then, you know my fondness for ghost stories."

Stung though he appeared to be by T'Pol's lack of enthusiasm, Trip seemed unwilling to be mollified by Travis' support. "So what didn't work for you?" he queried as he dragged a couple of chairs over to a table Travis had claimed for their use. A certain ritual had developed around Movie Night. Popcorn was popped prior to the flick; pie was eaten afterwards. "Didn't you think the acting was good? It's one of Nicole Kidman's better remembered roles. What about the setting—the isolated old house, the fog, the weird people who kept popping up? You didn't find any of that…creepy?"

T'Pol looked as if she were seriously considering the commander's question as the group took their seats. It was lucky Travis had been keeping an eye on things. The place was filling up rather than emptying out. Their little quartet apparently weren't the only ones with dessert on the brain.

"The performances were quite skilled," the petite Vulcan allowed, folding her hands atop the table, her posture prim as always, "and the setting indeed atmospheric. I had, however, deduced the protagonist and her family were in fact the true ghosts long before the film's climax. This knowledge erased for me much of the intended tension."

Trip all but sputtered with indignation and surprise. "What! How…how did you figure out they were the ones who were the ghosts and not the other way around?"

Again, T'Pol paused before she spoke. This time, however, it seemed to Hoshi the sub-commander's hesitation sprang from something having to do with her blond co-worker rather than the simple desire to marshal her thoughts. T'Pol's eyes were focused on her hands rather than on Trip.

"If you recall, when first telling me about the film, you stated the plot had a 'twist'," she explained, her voice utterly without rebuke. "Given that on the surface the storyline appeared quite straightforward, it was not long into the proceedings before I realized what the twist must be."

Travis started chuckling, obviously as entertained by the blossoming horror on Trip's face as Hoshi was. "Way to go, Commander," the helmsman teased. "You spoiled the picture!"

"No," Trip protested, looking from T'Pol to Travis and back again, chagrin furrowing his forehead. "I mean, I-I didn't… That is…you shouldn't…have… Oh, geez, T'Pol. I did, didn't I? I spoiled the movie."

T'Pol lifted her gaze and her brow, her expression mild. "Apparently. Although it would appear the 'spoiling' was inadvertent."

"Boy, Commander," Hoshi razzed, itching to get in on the ribbing, "it looks like we're going to have to watch it around you. The next thing you know you'll be spilling the beans about Darth Vadar's family tree."

"Hey! Come on now," Trip complained good-naturedly, seemingly relieved T'Pol bore him no ill will for the gaffe. "I'm really sorry I didn't keep my mouth shut, but I'm not planning on making a habit of it. And anyway—if T'Pol watches all the episodes in order, I'm not going to have to worry about spoiling anything."

"To what episodes are you referring?" T'Pol queried, apparently confused by the conversation tangent.

"A series of movies every Earth child knows by heart," Hoshi interjected. "Even if only half of them are actually worth watching."

"That's it," Trip said, pushing to his feet, his would-be pique as playful as his smile. "I'm not going to sit here and listen not only to my character being maligned but to some of Hollywood's best movies being criticized as well."

"You're a Star Wars fan, sir?" Travis asked.

"You kidding me? The Millennium Falcon, Obi-Wan and the Force, a kidnapped princess in a galaxy 'far, far away'? Those movies were one of the main reasons I signed up with Starfleet," Trip said, his grin widening.

"Pictured yourself as Luke Skywalker, Commander?" Hoshi guessed, charmed by the mental image of a pint-sized Trip Tucker brandishing a lightsaber longer than he was tall.

Trip shook his head. "Not Luke—Han. He got the girl. And he got to keep his hand." Crossing around the back of Travis' chair, the commander laid one of his own hands on the ensign's shoulder. "Come on, Travis. Let's see if we can't rustle up some pie. If I can't offer T'Pol a good scare, the least I can do is satisfy her sweet tooth."

* * *

Nearly an hour later, T'Pol and Trip walked side by side down one of Enterprise's many halls, having parted from Travis and Hoshi at the deck's turbo lift, their shoulders brushing companionably as they strolled.

As was his custom, Trip was seeing T'Pol to her quarters, a practice the sub-commander found agreeable yet baffling. Commander Tucker could not reasonably believe she required assistance finding her way back to her accommodations, nor could he rationally fear for her safety were she left on her own. The logical course of action would have been for the commander to have bid her farewell at his own door, which they had passed half a corridor before.

Yet, she knew as well as anyone the commander was sometimes not the most logical of creatures. Besides, she couldn't fault him for his courtesy. It allowed them more time together, time she very much enjoyed.

Although she would never confess as much to him.

"While tonight's feature did not supply me with quite the…thrill you might have hoped, it did raise for me a question," she ventured as they made their way slowly down the hall. The hour was late, beta shift well underway, and the hallway lighting was dimmed to approximate night. Foot traffic was light; they had the passage to themselves. While T'Pol had never required artificial illumination to regulate her internal clock, she took pleasure in the simulated evening glow. It lent a sense of intimacy to the ship's walkways, the illusion belied by the more than eighty individuals living and working all around them, active as ants in a hill.

Trip glanced her way. "Don't know if I'll have the answer you're looking for, but I'm willing to give it a try. Ask away."

T'Pol inclined her head, appreciative of his reply. "You and the captain have explained to me the reasons for your culture's love of horror films."

"Part adrenaline rush, part cardio-vascular workout," Trip recalled with a nod. "Seems to me, you recommended a little good old-fashioned exercise instead." The twinkle in his eyes erased any of the words' potential bite.

"Indeed," T'Pol agreed. "And yet there seems to be a subtle difference between horror films focusing on monsters or villains and those whose action revolves around spectral activity."

Trip stopped and turned to her, his brow wrinkled with confusion. "How do you mean?"

T'Pol stopped as well, lips pursed as she considered how best to phrase her query. "Both contain suspense, both utilize the element of surprise to build tension, both often depict violence in a way calculated to shock their audiences. Yet ghost stories most commonly include a feeling of melancholy, an almost quixotic sense of loss or longing, which the other tales do not. Why is that?"

Trip scrubbed his face with his hand as he pondered her question. "I don't know, T'Pol. I guess it's because ghosts were once people, often people who left behind loved ones who miss them." He paused, seemingly trying to figure out how best to explain the unexplainable. "Some say ghosts exist because they're drawn to this world even after death. It's like they're not quite ready to leave it all behind." He shrugged then, almost as if embarrassed. "There is something moving in that, I suppose, wanting what you can never have."

T'Pol heard something in his voice, a wistfulness that stirred an answering something in her. "Vulcans do not believe in ghosts."

Trip smiled, the grin, to T'Pol's measuring eyes, surprisingly affectionate. "Now why does that not surprise me?"

Even though she knew he was baiting her, T'Pol could not help but respond. "Despite exhaustive research into the field going back hundreds of years, neither Earth scientists nor the Vulcan Science Directorate have been able to irrefutably confirm the existence of ghosts."

"Yet every Earth culture has stories about them," Trip countered blithely, his smile undimmed. "Disappearing hitchhikers, long dead home owners, hell—phantom horses and dogs. Who's to say there isn't something to it? Don't Vulcans spin yarns about the spirit world? Cautionary tales about encounters with the unknown?"

"No."

If anything, Trip's smile widened even more. "That almost sounds like a challenge. I wonder if anyone aboard this ship has a Ouija Board."

* * *

Continued in Chapter Two 


	2. Chapter 2

**Ghost Ship by Ancastar**

**Chapter 2**

* * *

Trip breezed through the mess hall on his way to the captain's private dining room, grateful for the summons. While the captain, T'Pol and he often shared dinner together, an invitation to breakfast was a bit more uncommon. Something must be up. Hopefully that something would be served with a plate of Chef's special blueberry pancakes and pork sausage. Trip had rolled out of bed that morning with quite an appetite.

Entering the captain's mess, Trip saw T'Pol and Captain Jonathan Archer had beaten him to the table. T'Pol sat sipping her orange juice, the captain stirring his coffee.

"Sorry I'm late," Trip said, pouring his own cup of java at the beverage bar. "Rostov caught me outside of Engineering with a question about next week's duty roster. Hope you weren't waiting too long."

"Not at all," Jon said as a crewman entered with that morning's fare. Eggs Benedict for the two men. Hot cereal and fruit for T'Pol. Catching a whiff of his savory dish, Trip found he was not overly disappointed to be served eggs instead of flapjacks. Truth be told, in Trip's eyes, Chef couldn't do much wrong. "I was just beginning to fill in T'Pol on my reason for asking you two to breakfast this morning."

"What's up, Cap'n?" Trip asked, sliding in to the chair opposite his Vulcan crewmate.

"First off, I'd like to apologize," Jon began, smoothing his napkin into place across his legs. "I know you two have spent the last couple of days recalibrating the sensors to properly analyze the molecular cloud off Marope Prime. I'm afraid that's going to have wait."

"Bigger fish to fry?" Trip asked, slicing into his meal.

"I got a call from Starfleet. We have been requested to assist a people known as the J'Hardinne," Jon explained around a mouthful of Hollandaise drenched eggs. He turned to his science officer. "T'Pol said she had heard of them."

T'Pol nodded. "Yes. They are a people known for colonizing uninhabited worlds. Their kind are found scattered throughout the galaxy, sometimes with no more than a few thousand in residence on any given planet."

Trip frowned. "Why the urge to spread out? Are they looking to build some kind of empire or something?"

"Not at all," T'Pol assured him. "They are, in fact, pacifists. The J'Hardinne home world was rendered uninhabitable over two centuries ago. They merely seek to find other suitable environments. The practice of settling on multiple planets is to provide autonomy for their various cultures."

"What happened to their home planet?" Jon asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

T'Pol chewed thoughtfully for a moment before responding. "The planet was embroiled in a decades long world war. As tensions escalated, nuclear weaponry was utilized as well as various biological agents. Many large urban centers were obliterated; the eco-system became fouled beyond repair."

"Geez," Trip murmured, shaking his head. "Sounds an awful lot like what almost happened to Earth not so long ago."

Jon nodded, his expression grim. "Only we stopped short of polluting our planet so badly we had to look for another one."

T'Pol lifted a brow. "Ironically, it was the destruction of the J'Hardinne's home world that brought hostilities to a halt. Those who had escaped annihilation worked together to evacuate survivors. This first generation lived largely aboard their fleet of rescue ships."

"You said they tend to focus their colonizing on uninhabited planets," Jon said, spearing a bit of muffin and Canadian bacon. "Is that to avoid future conflict?"

T'Pol dipped her head. "Yes. Rather than running the risk of inciting further land disputes, the J'Hardinne have chosen to populate planets that have not yet been claimed by other species. Their scientists have focused much of their time and energy on the development of advanced terra forming techniques."

"How advanced?" Trip asked. "It's taken Earth more than fifty years to terraform Mars to its current state. Are the J'Hardinne moving faster than that?"

"Much," T'Pol said after a dainty bite of fruit. "Their methods are so sophisticated the Vulcan Science Directorate recently requested permission to study their findings. According to reports coming from the J'Hardinne's leading scientific authority, the newest refinements to their technique promise to shorten the time even more."

"What are we talking here?" Jon asked, reaching for his coffee. "Five years? Ten?"

"Little more than one," T'Pol replied.

Trip whistled softly under his breath. "Damn. What I wouldn't give to take a look at their research. Don't suppose the Vulcans will share what they learn?"

T'Pol dabbed at her mouth with her napkin for a moment rather than immediately answer. When she chose to speak, she did not meet the eyes of either dining companion. "The Vulcans have not yet learned anything. The J'Hardinne have failed to agree to a diplomatic exchange of scientific research."

Trip really didn't think he was going to be able to respond with a straight face, but he gave it a valiant effort nonetheless. "Wow. The J'Hardinne are holding back information from the Vulcans? Imagine the High Command wanting to know something and being told they'd have to figure it out for themselves. I don't believe I've ever heard of such a thing. Have you, Cap'n?"

Jon was having little more success hiding his smile than was his chief engineer. "I believe that may be a first."

T'Pol scowled heartily in first one direction, then the other before murmuring, "Negotiations are ongoing."

The captain took pity on his science officer and smoothly redirected the conversation. "Well, perhaps if all goes well over the next few days, we might be able to assist the Vulcans in achieving their goal."

Trip followed Jon's lead as effortlessly as a relay runner accepting a handoff. While it was a heck of a lot of fun teasing T'Pol, he didn't want to go overboard and risk riling her too badly. Vulcan/Human relations was still a subject they navigated carefully. "Don't tell me the J'Hardinne are asking us for a favor."

Jon nodded. "They are, indeed. It seems a shipload of settlers heading for a planet they've named J'Hillar have gone missing. Following our present course, we're only a few hours away and they've asked us to look into it."

"Away from what?" Trip asked. "You said the ship was missing. Are we coming up on their last known location, their last transmission—what?"

Jon smiled. "Actually, I didn't say the ship was missing. I said the settlers were."

Trip frowned. "I don't get it."

"The J'Hardinne have been in constant contact with the ship, the Br'Teyn, since it left space dock a month and a half ago with close to hundred people on board, many of them women and children. Two days ago, the captain of the Br'Teyn failed to make his morning status call. The Resettlement Committee that oversees all colonization efforts has been trying to get in touch with the ship almost continually ever since, to no avail. According to their long-range sensors, the ship appears to be sitting nearly motionless in a largely uninhabited quadrant of space. However, they can detect no sign of exterior damage or system malfunction. They want us to see what's going on."

"I will need to consult the Vulcan database to be certain, but as I recall, the J'Hardinne require an environment not unlike that of Earth or Vulcan," T'Pol contributed, her prior annoyance apparently forgotten. Trip had to hand it to her—although her human crewmates might sometimes annoy the heck out of her, T'Pol seemed almost incapable of holding a grudge. "We should be able to board the Br'Teyn without use of an EV suit."

"That's good news," Trip said, pressing his napkin to his mouth before balling it atop his empty plate. "Those things are the heaviest, clumsiest—"

"Tools for keeping you alive in a hostile setting—," Jon contributed with a wink.

"That I can think of," Trip concluded with a sheepish grin.

T'Pol didn't so much as arch a brow at their antics. "Captain, how long before we reach the Br'Teyn?"

"We should pull alongside at approximately 1300 hours," Jon replied. "I'd like you, Trip and Malcolm to be the ones to board her. I don't know whether it was some kind of internal problem that caused the ship to go silent or some kind of external enemy. But it seems to me you three would be the ones best suited to find some answers."

"Sounds like a plan," Trip said, pushing away from the table. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to finish up a few things in Engineering before we head out on our rescue mission. Thanks for the meal, Captain. Sub-Commander, I'll see you at 1300 hours."

* * *

To be continued in Chapter 3 


	3. Chapter 3

**Ghost Ship**

**by Ancastar**

* * *

Chapter 3

As there was no damage to the Br'Teyn's docking port, Malcolm, Trip and T'Pol were able to travel to the ship via shuttlepod as opposed to transporter, which made Lieutenant Reed one very happy man indeed. True, they had by now tested the transporter innumerable times on both cargo and humans. But Malcolm still couldn't entirely get past the notion that once his molecules became separated, there was no guarantee they would ever actually be drawn back together again.

The trio was standing just outside the ship's docking station and making their way slowly down a hushed hallway, scanners out and searching for data, their investigation having just begun. T'Pol, of course, had scanned the ship as best she could before they had ever left Enterprise's launch bay, her findings matching those of the J'Hardinne Resettlement Committee. The ship had suffered no discernable exterior damage, nor did the craft's systems appear to be in any way compromised. Yet, despite these seeming signs of normalcy, the sub-commander had detected no life signs onboard.

"Archer to Reed."

Malcolm flipped open his communicator. "Reed here, sir."

"I trust you had no surprises waiting for you when you came aboard."

"None whatsoever," Malcolm assured his commanding officer. "We're just starting down the passage linking the docking port with the central corridor. I'll report back as soon as we've had a chance to nose around a bit."

"I want regular check-ins, Malcolm," Jon instructed, his tone offering little room for discussion. "Even if it's just to say that you haven't found anything yet. If you or another member of the party fails to contact Enterprise at quarter hour intervals, I've directed Ensign Metai to beam you all out of there immediately. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly, sir," Malcolm said, suppressing a shudder. His captain would never know just what an incentive such a simple directive could be.

"Excellent. Good luck. Talk to you soon. Archer out."

"Sounds like the captain is keeping us on a pretty tight rein," Trip observed, throwing a look over his shoulder at his British friend.

"As well he should," T'Pol argued, looking up only briefly from her scanner. "We do not know what happened to the people aboard this ship. It would be unwise for us to lower our guard until we better understand what occurred here."

Malcolm walked just slightly behind his two superior officers, weapon drawn and ready, allowing the engineer and scientist to jointly lead their tiny expedition. Having studied schematics of the Br'Teyn prior to leaving Enterprise, the threesome had noted the ship's cylindrical shape was bisected by a central corridor on all three of its decks. The bridge and communal spaces such as the mess hall and infirmary were on the top deck. The middle deck contained most of the vessel's sleeping quarters, with the remainder of the ship's accommodations being found on the lowest deck along with a number of various storage compartments and Engineering. All three levels were linked by three turbolifts located at the fore, aft and midway points on each deck. They were currently making their way carefully through the uppermost level. The main hallway lay before them, eerie in its emptiness.

"Well, I guess the good news is we didn't come onboard only to find the place littered with bodies," Trip ventured after a minute or two of silence. "'Course, we've got a lot more ship to look over."

Despite the macabre nature of Trip's musings, Malcolm was thankful for the noise. It didn't seem right that a craft the size of the Br'Teyn would have no soundtrack save for the gentle humming of its systems.

The armory officer did his best to shake off the heebie-jeebies. "And yet, at the same time, we know the J'Hardinne didn't leave voluntarily. Their life pods are all still attached to the outside hull."

Trip shrugged. "They could have been taken somewhere."

"By whom?" Malcolm queried. "And to what purpose? There's no sign of a firefight or struggle. I find it difficult to believe 100 people would just up and leave one ship to go to another without some reason, and a very good one at that."

"Such a reason is what we are here to ascertain," T'Pol reminded them, her soft voice carrying just a hint of rebuke. "Commander, have you detected any unusual readings in this ship's EPS grid?"

"Nope," Trip said, shaking his head. "But I won't really know for sure if anything unusual has happened in the last 48 hours until I get down to Engineering, take a look at their logs and run a few diagnostics."

"We will work our way down there eventually," T'Pol replied, her calm, steady gaze now focused on her two crewmates. "Together. In the meantime, we will stay close and continue our analysis. There will undoubtedly be much to learn on the ship's bridge."

Yet they didn't hurry to the ship's command center; they first visited each of the departments they encountered along the way.

_Sick Bay…_

"Look at that," Trip murmured, laying his hand on Malcolm's forearm.

"I don't see anything," Malcolm admitted, gazing in the same direction as his friend. Sick Bay, like the rest of the ship, stood empty, its monitors on but thus far not transmitting anything of use.

"Look at the biobed there next to the desk," Trip instructed. "The one with the blanket folded back."

Malcolm saw the bed in question. It stood at the end of a row of similar beds. But he still didn't understand what had caught his friend's eye. "All right. I see the bed. Now what?"

"Look at the pillow," Trip said softly, almost as if he were trying to keep T'Pol from overhearing. The sub-commander was seated at what looked to be the infirmary's main computer terminal, her focus on the screen. Yet Malcolm judged by the delicate lift of her brow that she just might be monitoring her crewmates' conversation.

"See the indentation there," Trip continued as he edged cautiously towards the bed, his hand indicating the area in question. "What does that look like to you?"

Malcolm pursed his lips, at last realizing what had commanded the engineer's interest. "Like not so long ago someone had laid their head there."

Trip nodded and, reaching out, brushed his fingertips against the spot, the action hesitant as if he feared perhaps poking an invisible man in the eye.

"I would not let your imaginations get the best of you."

The two men both startled at the voice of their Vulcan counterpart. Turning to face her, they found her expression ever so slightly amused. "Such bedding often holds it shape long after a person has arisen."

"You don't think it's odd the bed would remain unmade like that?" Trip questioned, taking a step towards T'Pol, covering what Malcolm knew must be embarrassment with a touch of bluster. "Especially given the state of the rest of this place? It's practically immaculate."

"I do not," T'Pol replied. "We do not know the timing of events aboard this ship. Perhaps whatever happened occurred not long after a patient had been discharged."

"Or perhaps this imaginary patient was snatched right out of his or her bed," Trip countered, hands on his hips.

"It would appear, Commander Tucker, you have been watching far too many of those horror films you so enjoy," T'Pol said, her tone light, yet pointed.

Doing his best to conceal a smile, Malcolm headed for the door. He really didn't want to hear Trip's response.

_Mess Hall…_

"Man, more and more this reminds me of that ship…you know the one, Malcolm. They discovered it floating off the coast of Gibraltar, totally seaworthy, but its crew missing."

"The Mary Celeste," Malcolm replied, answering Trip's unspoken query. He had to admit—his friend's comparison was apt. The mess hall stood as vacant as the rest of the ship. Yet there were small reminders that passengers had once traveled aboard the Br'Teyn.

Two of the tables had plates of half eaten food on them. A toppled chair lay on its side nearby one such display.

T'Pol stepped closer to one of the abandoned meals, her scanner in her hand. "According to these readings, this food appears to have been at room temperature for anywhere from 48 to 60 hours."

"Fits in with everything else," Trip said with a shrug and a shake of his head. "Looks like whoever was eating here got pulled away at approximately the same time as everyone else."

"And with some degree of haste," Malcolm said, righting the fallen chair.

"You probably should have left that where it was," T'Pol said, turning to observe Malcolm's actions. "This ship is in many ways a crime scene. We should not disturb evidence."

"Hard to prove a crime has been committed when there aren't any bodies," Malcolm replied, feeling a bit foolish nonetheless for making so obvious a mistake.

"Still two more decks to go," Trip reminded him, the engineer's arms crossed.

Suddenly, the lights dimmed, stopping just shy of complete darkness.

Bewildered and more than a little unnerved, Malcolm looked around for a cause. "What in the—"

But before he could even finish his sentence, the room was as bright as before, all lighting back to full strength.

"What the hell was that?" Trip asked, seemingly as unsettled as Malcolm.

T'Pol answered, her voice calm and firm. "No doubt a simple energy surge. We have them from time to time aboard Enterprise. I see no reason to believe the Br'Teyn might not be similarly afflicted.

"An energy surge?" Trip echoed, apparently not at all convinced.

T'Pol arched her brow. "Unless you have another explanation, Commander?"

For a moment, Trip looked as if he might challenge her assumption, his lips thinned while he considered his reply. In the end, he conceded with a sigh. "Not just yet."

"Very well," T'Pol said with a regal dip of her head. "If that's settled, let us proceed to the bridge."

_The Bridge…_

"Huh. This is even smaller than ours."

It certainly was. Unlike the Enterprise with its various stations and ready room, the Br'Teyn's bridge contained places only for the helmsman, the captain, and what looked to be a station that combined sensors and the ship's limited weaponry. The square footage was less than half of what the Starfleet officers typically enjoyed.

"I would imagine their captain, like Captain Archer, must have kept some sort of log," T'Pol said, crossing to the captain's chair. "We will need to figure out how to access that data."

The next half hour was spent doing exactly that. T'Pol focused her efforts on the information to be gleaned from the captain's perspective, while Trip and Malcolm took charge of the helm and sensors respectively.

"There don't appear to have been any notable course deviations over the past week," Trip reported awhile later, after having reviewed the navigation logs. "The J'Hardinne weren't too creative with their flight plan. It's a pretty straight shot between their point of origin and their destination. I see some small course corrections noted, but nothing unusual."

"Any ideas on why we found them floating motionless?" Malcolm inquired, looking up from his own research.

Trip shook his head. "I'm guessing it's some kind of failsafe with the navigation. If the helm isn't manned for a period of time, the ship probably drops out of warp and goes into hover mode."

"Better that than flying blind into the side of a planet, I suppose," Malcolm commented with a lift of his brow.

"Most things are," Trip agreed with a wry smile.

"There is nothing unusual to report in the captain's logs either," T'Pol announced from her seat in the command chair. "I have gone over both his personal and official entries and have found only routine accounts."

"So whatever happened, happened quickly," Trip said, turning at the helm to face his two crewmates.

"And without warning," Malcolm added, as perplexed as were his two friends.

"Do not give up hope," T'Pol said, standing. "There is still much of the ship left to investigate. We may yet find a solution to the mystery."

Trip pressed to his feet as well. "Lead on, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

Yet the trio didn't experience any epiphanies as they slowly made their way through the ship's living quarters. The middle deck proved as clear of inhabitants as did the one above. The only difference was their search had shifted from communal areas free of personalization to private spaces full of character, even in so cramped a setting as a starship.

Seeing all the personal belongings, trappings of everyday life, struck a chord with the team, particularly with Trip. These weren't just anonymous nobodies they were looking for. Some missing woman had once worn that dress. A parent had perhaps tossed that ball to their son or daughter. That empty cage had no doubt once housed a family pet.

"Looks like there were a lot more children on board than I'd expected," Trip murmured, his face drawn as they entered yet another set of accommodations with toys tucked into the corners.

"The ship was carrying colonists," T'Pol reminded him, checking the room's storage lockers, while the men studied the information glowing on the compartment's computer screen. It appeared someone had been writing a letter home; the missive was sadly devoid of clues. "We had been warned families were among those making the journey."

"I know that," Trip said, trying to avoid bumping into Malcolm as he continued collecting readings. They hadn't much room to maneuver. "But you've gotta wonder what they were thinking when whatever happened here went down."

"They?" Malcolm queried, choosing to get out of the way by leaning against the door frame.

"The kids," Trip clarified, troubled by the thought. "What kind of trip must this have been for them? Cooped up inside this tin can for god only knows how many months, breathing recycled air and eating resequenced protein."

"Sounds pretty familiar," Malcolm said, seemingly trying to tease his friend out of his funk. "Our daily lives can't be much different from what theirs were."

"I'm a grown man, Malcolm," Trip said, his mouth pinched with annoyance. "So are you. Everyone who serves on Enterprise is an adult. We knew what we were getting ourselves into when we signed on." He picked up a small furry plaything sitting on a table next to a set of bunks. He wasn't sure what kind of creature it mimicked, but it looked to him like a cross between a teddy bear and a cat. "How old must the little boy or girl have been who played with this? Would they have even been in school yet? What happened to them when everyone disappeared? Why did their parents even have them out here in the first place?"

"To offer them a better life," T'Pol said softly, crossing to him and laying her hand on his arm. Her expression was solemn, but Trip thought he saw something like sympathy shining in her dark eyes. "Most of the J'Hardinne come from families who spent entire generations onboard ships not unlike this. Many are without a true home; they have known immense hardship. Such people no doubt believed taking a journey such as this would offer their children more than they themselves had enjoyed. Is that not what any parent wishes for their child?"

Trip dropped his head and closed his eyes. He was behaving like an ass. He knew it. This wasn't the first time he had run across innocents who had unwittingly stepped into the line of fire. Hell, he didn't even know for certain something had happened to the boys and girls who had traveled with their parents on this ship. But seeing scene after scene of domestic life…finding photographs displayed on shelves filled with smiling, hopeful faces, drawings taped on walls, many depicted houses and trees and bright yellow suns…

"I'm sorry," he said, laying his hand atop T'Pol's. Her skin was warm and smooth. Surprised a bit by his own boldness, he was pleased she allowed his touch. "You're right. Of course you're right. I guess I just don't like the idea of kids being put at risk."

"None of us do, Commander," Malcolm assured him.

Trip smiled, gave T'Pol's hand a quick squeeze and joined the armory officer at the door. "I didn't know you even liked children, Malcolm."

The Lieutenant shrugged. "Don't be silly. As long as I can hand them back to their parents when the need arises, I have no problem with them at all."

Trip chuckled and followed his friend into the hall; T'Pol trailed behind. They hadn't taken more than a few steps when he heard something coming from a side corridor up ahead.

"What was that?" Trip whispered, stopping to exchange his scanner for his phase pistol.

"I don't know," Malcolm replied, weapon in his hand as well. Only T'Pol kept her scanner active. "It squeaked, didn't it?"

"Sounded more like a whirling sound to me," Trip countered, moving slowly forward, Malcolm by his side. "Like a machine with a moving part."

"I detect a small fluctuation in temperature coming from the direction of the sound," T'Pol said, half a step behind. "That area has dipped 8.2 degrees in comparison to where we stand. Yet I detect no life signs."

"A cold spot?" Trip queried, his voice yet hushed.

"What could that mean?" Malcolm asked, matching his friend in volume.

Trip shook his head, mouth pressed tight. "I can tell you what it means in the movies."

"What?"

"Ghosts."

"This is not one of your horror films, Commander," Malcolm chided as they reached the corner of the corridor. The sound continued unabated, the noise steady, almost like a hum. Glancing back at his two crewmates, the Lieutenant mouthed the word, "Ready?"

Trip adjusted so that he stood at Malcolm's shoulder, and nodded. T'Pol had finally put her scanner away and was now equally armed. She too inclined her head and stood a step behind Trip, waiting for Malcolm's signal.

_'On two,'_ the Brit pantomimed, his phase pistol held tight against his chest.

Going on a silent count, the threesome rounded the corner. What greeted their eyes froze them in their tracks.

"You sure this isn't one of my movies?" Trip challenged, the words strangled, his weapon hanging useless in his hand.

On its side in the middle of the corridor, lay what looked to be a child's tricycle, the large front wheel turned and pointed towards the ceiling.

"It's moving," Malcolm said, stating the obvious, his weapon also dangling at his side.

"Indeed," T'Pol murmured, seemingly as stunned as her two crewmates.

The wheel turned steadily, oblivious to the stares of the three people watching it, propelled as if by an unseen hand.

Trip looked to first one friend, then the other. "How is that possible?"

Remaining silent, T'Pol brushed past him towards the downed trike.

"T'Pol!" Trip protested, reaching out to grab her arm. The Vulcan eluded his hand.

She stepped towards the spinning wheel carefully, as if she expected the miniature bike to suddenly jump upright and run her down. It remained in position, however; the front tire rotating lazily. Until she laid her palm atop it…

"Sub-Commander," Malcolm warned.

…and the wheel stopped, its fat rubber tire held firm in T'Pol's grasp.

The three officers stood there a moment pondering what they had seen, and perhaps wondering if anything else might unexpectedly choose to animate on its own.

"Okay, would someone please explain to me what the hell just happened here?" Trip implored after a beat.

T'Pol ran her scanner over the fallen bike, her brow creased with concentration.

"Could someone have set the wheel turning and then run away?" Malcolm ventured, running a hand over his hair.

"I don't see how," Trip countered. "T'Pol scanned the area as soon as we heard the sound, but didn't read anyone in the corridor."

"What if they somehow managed to hide in a shielded area?" Malcolm asked, his heart seemingly not in the query.

"Where, Malcolm?" Trip challenged. "We've been over these hallways with every scanner we've got; we've studied the schematics the J'Hardinne gave us. Nothing indicates this ship has any kind of hidden passage or compartments, especially not any with special shielding. Besides—why would anyone want to do that? What could they possibly have to gain?"

"I don't know!" Malcolm confessed, his volume rising with his frustration. "I admit—I don't know what they'd have to gain. There doesn't appear to be much on this ship worth stealing."

"And if someone were planning to rob the settlers who traveled onboard, wouldn't it be smarter for them to take what they want and leave?" Trip said, his voice a soothing counterpart to the temper found in his friend's words. "There'd be no reason for them to stick around and spin bicycle tires."

Malcolm sighed, then nodded. "You're right. I guess I'm just trying to come up with some explanation that doesn't involve space ghosts."

Trip smiled darkly and shook his head. "That's the thing, Malcolm. Maybe there isn't one."

* * *

To Be Continued in Chapter 4 


	4. Chapter 4

**Ghost Ship**

By Ancasta

Chapter 4

Sorry it's taken me awhile to update. Real life got a bit too real these past couple of weeks. Thanks to all of you who are following along, especially those who have taken time to rec. This new author really appreciates it.

* * *

T'Pol stepped off the turbolift onto Br'Teyn's C deck, frowning as she listened to Lieutenant Reed and Commander Tucker continue their ongoing discussion behind her.

"Good Lord, are you listening to yourself, Commander? The next thing we know you'll be suggesting holding a bloody séance."

"I'm not suggesting any such thing, _Lieutenant_. I'm only saying what T'Pol has been saying all along—we don't know what's happened here. It seems to me we shouldn't discount anything, no matter how outrageous the explanation might first appear to be."

While T'Pol appreciated Commander Tucker's open-mindedness—not to mention his apparent attention to her words—she couldn't help but side with Lieutenant Reed on this particular issue. The Enterprise's chief engineer was allowing himself to be influenced by the ambiance aboard the abandoned ship rather than by the facts.

No, they did not know where the Br'Teyn's crew and passengers were. Yes, there had been a brief power dampening when they had been in the Mess Hall. And yes, they had discovered an inanimate object that had been, for some as yet undetermined reason, moving. Still, while some things remained admittedly unexplained, T'Pol was certain the oddities' cause was far from supernatural. Reasonable explanations could and would be uncovered.

Unfortunately, Commander Tucker had thus far not found her hypotheses compelling.

"A problem with the grav plating?" he had cried in disbelief when she had shared her theory regarding the overturned tricycle and its rotating wheel.

She had nodded. "It is entirely possible the bicycle had been affected by a momentary loss of gravity. That could account for it being found on its side with the front wheel turning. An abrupt flip would have set the tire in motion."

"A momentary loss of gravity," he had echoed incredulously, exasperation painted vividly across his features. "And you're saying you think it only affected that one short stretch of hallway?"

"Isolated incidents of this kind have been reported before on ships not unlike this one. Typically the cause is some kind of minor engineering malfunction."

"Yeah? Well I got news for you—I'm an engineer and so far my scans have shown nothing that would lead me to believe any portion of this ship's gravitational systems has been in any way compromised."

"We have not yet completed our analysis," T'Pol had reminded him, unwavering in the face of the commander's obvious skepticism. "As you have mentioned more than once, you will not have had access to all the Br'Teyn's information until you have the opportunity to examine the engineering logs."

Trip had struggled for a moment, clearly wanting to say more, yet apparently not certain his desire had merit. Finally he had said with a heartfelt sigh. "Then let's get the hell down there, all right? I'm not convinced we should stay on this ship any longer than is absolutely necessary."

Now, as the threesome made their way along yet another silent, empty passage, T'Pol couldn't help but share her human friend's sense of urgency. Although she had done her best to hide it from her two male crewmates, T'Pol had felt a certain unease ever since arriving aboard the Br'Teyn. She had chalked up the sensation to her own innate wariness, a fight or flight instinct that was only natural given the situation. Yet presently, deep within the bowels of the ship, that insistence had grown, making her skin tingle and her heart accelerate its pace. Without fully understanding the cause, T'Pol was aware of a vague menace in the air, a threat without apparent form or substance.

When they returned to Enterprise, she was never going to allow the commander to drag her to another of those wretched films. It would appear they had somehow adversely influenced her.

"Might as well start here," Malcolm said, interrupting her reverie.

They stood outside a pair of large sliding doors. A matching pair was found opposite. A quick check of the UT told T'Pol these were two of the ship's main storage compartments.

"My scanner shows no bio signs," Malcolm continued, pocketing the handheld in question and pulling his phase pistol from his belt. "Still, it doesn't hurt to be careful. Judging by the specs, there could be a lot of places to hide inside. Let's proceed cautiously."

Trip and T'Pol followed Malcolm's lead, putting aside their diagnostic equipment and arming themselves instead. Checking first to make certain his crewmates were ready, Malcolm hit the door controls.

When the double panels slid open, the cavernous room revealed resembled nothing so much as Enterprise's own cargo bay. The ceiling was high, the walls bare of ornamentation.

The space, however, was far from empty.

Pausing at the room's threshold, Malcolm chuckled. "I suppose I must amend my earlier comment about there being nothing aboard this ship to steal."

"And yet," Trip murmured in reply, "I'd say this proves beyond a shadow of a doubt robbery wasn't the motive for whatever happened here."

T'Pol was forced to agree with them both. The hold was packed with containers—canisters and boxes and some loose items besides. It appeared the colonists had set off well prepared.

"We should still have a look around," Malcolm said, his eyes roaming over the various passageways and cubbies as if on the lookout for unseen enemies.

"Agreed," T'Pol said, her pistol still clutched in her hand.

With that, the trio fanned out, cautiously winding through the vast maze of supplies. After a moment or two, once she had judged the situation stable, T'Pol again switched out her weapon for her universal translator. Pointing it in first one direction, then another, she checked to see what was stored there. Nothing terribly unusual—food stuffs, small household machinery, farming implements…

"Hey! Come here. Take a look at this!"

Trip's excited voice came from halfway across the cargo hold. T'Pol had to zigzag her way through the narrow rows before reaching his position. Malcolm came from another direction but arrived at nearly the exact same time. What they found astonished them.

Trip knelt beside a large device, its sundered packaging spread out around it. T'Pol had never seen anything like it. It was a console, large and gunmetal gray with a tall, thick amber colored cylinder rising up from the center of it and a silver mesh caging the amber. Lines of square multicolored buttons radiated from the cylinder like rays of a sun.

"What is that?" Malcolm asked, voicing the question before T'Pol could.

"I don't know," Trip admitted with a shake of his head. "I found it like this. Someone must have opened the crate."

"Which raises two obvious questions," Malcolm observed with a lift of his brows. "One, why did someone remove it from its crate and two, why didn't anyone put it back?"

"Wouldn't those actually be questions two and three?" Trip queried, glancing over his shoulder at the Englishman. "The first question is still 'What is it?'. Unless one of the two of you has figured it out."

T'Pol shook her head. "I am unfamiliar with any such device." Pulling out her scanner, she continued, "I am reading some sort of energy signature coming from the cylinder."

"Are there any kinds of markings on the packaging?" Malcolm queried, circling around to get a better look at the container.

"None that I could see," Trip replied, his own scanner out and surveying the console now as well. "Which is kind of odd when you think about it. Most everything else in here has some kind of label. It's almost as if someone were trying to disguise whatever this is, slip it by undetected."

"If that were the case, failing to label its container would be a serious error in judgment. Such a lack only calls attention to itself," T'Pol said mildly, her eyes yet trained on her analysis. Intriguing. Several different metals, some known, some not. Power conduits crisscrossed throughout the mechanism, many attached to the various switches spread across the console, the rest to the cylinder itself. Readings seemed to indicate some kind of power source held dormant within the device, but she couldn't get any sense as to its purpose.

Trip chuckled. "Touché, Sub-Commander. I don't suppose that makes a whole lotta sense. We have so many mysteries around here, I guess I'm looking to add a little conspiracy to the mix."

"Trip…"

Hearing a measure of apprehension in the lieutenant's voice, T'Pol lifted her gaze from her scanner. The amber tube was suddenly alight, a faint glow emanating from its core.

"What the hell…" Trip mumbled, looking over at the cylinder before again studying the scanner in his hand.

T'Pol could only imagine he was seeing the same readout as she. The energy she had previously judged inactive was strengthening, its growth subtle yet unmistakable.

"Why is it doing that?" Malcolm queried, clearly disturbed by the development. Weapon yet drawn, he crossed to stand at T'Pol's side and steal a peek at her scanner. "Did you touch something?"

Trip shook his head. "Not a thing. I don't know why it started doing whatever it is it's doing. It's like it switched on all by itself."

T'Pol was baffled as well. "It could have been triggered by any number of factors—motion, heat, bio-molecular energy. Our own scanners might even have set it off."

"Well, I don't like it," Malcolm said, edging nearer to the console. "It could be some kind of weapon."

"And it could also be a sun lamp," Trip said lightly, brow furrowed as he studied the readout on his scanner. "Let's not jump to conclusions here."

"May I remind you that you were the one who felt it wasn't safe for us to be here overlong," Malcolm countered, peering over Trip's shoulder. "When alien contraptions suddenly turn on all by themselves, I rather tend to agree."

"It's a machine, Malcolm," Trip said, tapping keys on the scanner to target specific measurements. "I happen to be pretty good with machines. All I'm saying is give me a minute to try and figure out what we've got here before we start calling for a lift from the transporter."

That was enough to quiet the lieutenant for the time being.

"Commander, what do you make of the mechanism's energy current?" T'Pol asked, glancing up from her own continuing analysis. "It appears highly unstable. The intensity vacillates without maintaining any sort of steady flow."

"I see what you're seeing, but I think there may be a kind of method to the madness," Trip replied, hitting still more buttons on his scanner.

"What do you mean?"

"I've been running an automated analysis on the range of variation. Judging by what the program came up with, I'd say that whatever this is, it isn't malfunctioning. It's basically coming to a mean. It's like the console is trying to find the exact right level of power."

"For what?" Malcolm asked.

Trip shrugged. "Got me. I wish this thing came with an instruction manual."

"Perhaps we should contact the J'Hardinne Resettlement Committee and see if they—", T'Pol began, only to stop short when all at once the console began beeping, the sound high and shrill.

"All right," Trip drawled, sitting back on his heels, his expression wary. "I'm thinking that's not good."

"Really, Commander?" Malcolm said, slowly backing away towards T'Pol. "And what was your first indication?"

Trip threw Malcolm a sideways glare, his expression containing little true heat. "All right, all right. I'm convinced, okay? This may be a little beyond me. Let's leave this thing alone and get out of here. We still have one last deck to check out."

"I believe that to be an excellent plan," T'Pol said, taking a step away. "I see nothing further here that needs to be investigated. We should instead—"

"Whoa!" Trip exclaimed suddenly, lurching to his feet.

The console's center cylinder had unexpectedly flared to brilliant glowing life, the column blazing like Sol itself behind its silver cage.

"All right," Malcolm said, armed once more and tense. "Everyone—out. Now."

"Malcolm…"

"Now, Commander."

Following her security officer's directive. T'Pol led the procession in the direction of the exit, her pace brisk. Malcolm and Trip followed at her heels. They had gotten only halfway to the door when the beeping, which had continued steadily since its inception, suddenly spiraled up into an ear piercing screech.

"_Aah_!" T'pol cried, the sound ripped from her.

Blindsided by pain, the Vulcan clamped her hands over her ears, her sensitive hearing all but crippled by the din, the shriek nearly driving her to her knees. A strong hand hooked around her elbow lending her support. She looked up through blurred vision and saw Malcolm's chiseled face.

"Sub-Commander," she thought the lieutenant might have said as he bent over her. "Are you all right?"

She tried to answer, but couldn't. Her head felt ready to shatter into millions upon millions of jagged shards. There was something about the frequency of the sound. It was scrambling her nervous system, making it difficult for her to think, let alone hear, speak or move.

Apparently recognizing her distress, Malcolm leaned down and lifted her in his arms. T'Pol wanted to protest. Such measures were unnecessary. She was perfectly capable of walking on her own. It was unseemly for an officer of her rank to be carried about like a child. But she couldn't voice her objection. She couldn't talk at all. Her brain was seemingly disconnected from her mouth.

"Hurry," she heard as if through water. She thought the speaker might be Lieutenant Reed. "Let's go."

Cheek pressed against the armory officer's shoulder, her eyes slitted, T'Pol could appreciate his desire for haste. The room was growing brighter, the light bleaching everything around them, reminding her of one of Commander Tucker's overexposed photographs.

As if merely thinking of the commander had the power to conjure him, T'Pol suddenly heard him yell, "Malcolm, run! RUN!"

With that, she felt the Englishman press her still more tightly against him and break into a trot. Even though T'Pol couldn't clearly see the path, memory told her the going was tricky. They had to weave between the various packing containers, while trying their best to take the shortest route possible. The lieutenant, with his wiry build, seemed to struggle under her weight. Several times he stumbled when shifting his balance and direction, coming dangerously close to losing his footing.

"Go! Go!" Trip urged from somewhere behind.

Malcolm did his best to comply. Huffing with strain, he darted around scattered boxes and containers, twisting and turning like a slalom racer. Though she longed to help, to drop to her feet and ease his burden, T'Pol could only hold on.

Muddled as T'Pol was, she sensed something around them was changing. A fierce pressure seemed to be welling inside the room, thickening the air so that it pressed almost painfully against her skin. She didn't know what it meant, but she wanted to escape from the unpleasant sensation. Lieutenant Reed did his best to make that wish a reality.

A few more meters, and she believed they were going to make it. Through hazy vision, she could make out the hold's wide doorway, open and welcoming as a beloved's arms.

Almost there, she thought gratefully, her eyelashes drooping. Almost there.

Then, as if mocking her silent relief, the unthinkable occurred. Rounding a particularly sharp turn, Malcolm's hip clipped a stack of drum containers. They teetered for half an instant before three of them came crashing to the floor.

"Shit!"

T'Pol recognized the cry as belonging to the Commander. Yet she couldn't see him. Malcolm had twisted to look back at the engineer, but not turned all the way around. The lieutenant's shoulder hid the other man from her view. Still, she knew something must be wrong. Malcolm's body went rigid with tension then she heard him scream,

"**TRIP**!" with every bit of breath he could muster.

"**GO**!" Trip responded, matching Malcolm in volume. Both men battling against the console's blare to be heard. "Get T'Pol out of here. GO!"

T'Pol wanted to lift her head and see what was happening, but it was simply too heavy. What was going on? Why did they not leave?

Malcolm was hesitating.

The room was growing almost painfully bright around them, the air crackling with some kind of terrible energy.

"Malcolm, please!" she heard again, the words softer this time, but no less urgent.

Saying not a word, the lieutenant did as he was bade.

He ran.

Faster now with their goal in sight.

Chest heaving with exertion, he crossed the threshold and sprinted down the corridor.

Malcolm didn't stop until they reached the farthest end of the ship. He then lowered T'Pol none too gently to the floor, whipped out his communicator and called for emergency transporter evacuation.

Sprawled half-blind against the hallway wall, T'Pol was only coherent enough to notice one thing. Lieutenant Reed and she were alone.

Commander Tucker was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

To Be Continued in Chapter 5 


	5. Chapter 5

**Ghost Ship**

By Ancastar

* * *

Chapter 5

"So you're saying he just disappeared?"

Captain Archer was certain his question sounded harsh, perhaps even accusatory, as if he somehow blamed two of his senior officers for the loss of a third.

"He did, sir," a pale and subdued Malcolm Reed assured him. "At least…I think he must have. The last time I saw Trip he was on the floor of the Br'Teyn's cargo bay, trying to use his communicator to call for evacuation. Only he couldn't get a signal, the machine was causing too much interference. When T'Pol and I got back to Enterprise, the sensors read no one in the cargo hold, no one onboard the ship at all."

Jon believed Malcolm told him the truth. But somehow he still had trouble taking it all in. How could Trip have disappeared like that, so suddenly, without any real warning?

"I shouldn't have left him," Malcolm continued, his voice gruff and soft. "He asked me to, but I shouldn't have listened. I should have figured out a way to get us all out of there."

Lips pressed thin, Jon shook his head. He knew where this was going, and no way was he going to let the man standing before him take the journey. "Malcolm, you told me Trip had injured himself when the canisters fell."

The lieutenant nodded, the dip of his head seemingly reluctant. "Yes, sir. I think he hit his head, and…and he couldn't stand. I don't know what was wrong, but his right ankle wouldn't hold his weight. He must have broken it or badly sprained it somehow when the drums came down on him. He…he tried to crawl after us. We both knew he wasn't going to make it."

Jon had to look away at that. He didn't want to think about it, to picture it in his head. What must have run through Trip's mind as he struggled to follow his crewmates to safety on his hands and knees, knowing all the while he would be far too slow to survive?

"It's my fault, sir," Malcolm said, interrupting Jon's ruminations. "I knocked over those canisters, making it impossible for Trip to get out of there on his own. But even before that…I knew the machine was potentially dangerous. I should have insisted the commander leave it alone the minute it came to life. If I had, he'd be alive right now."

Jon shook his head again, half in denial of Malcolm's guilt and half in recognition that the lieutenant's reaction was to be expected. "Malcolm, you had no way of knowing something like this could happen."

"That the bloody thing would wipe my friend from the universe?" Malcolm queried, self-directed anger glittering in his eyes. "No, I suppose I didn't. But I certainly knew the potential for disaster was aboard that ship. The fact that we found it empty was proof enough of that."

"And I'm sure you took what precautions you believed necessary," Jon said soothingly.

"Even if I did, they certainly weren't enough."

"T'Pol told me you urged Trip and her to leave the machine alone. Is that true?"

"Not until…"

"Is that true?"

Malcolm's jaw clenched shut so tightly Jon was positive he heard the man's teeth collide, the sound reminding him of billiard balls ricocheting off each other. Silent, he held his armory officer's gaze until the other man was forced to mumble, "Yes, sir."

Jon smiled, his expression more fond than amused. "And I'll bet Trip asked you to wait until he could figure out how the thing worked, and T'Pol backed him up because she was just as curious in her own way as Trip."

Malcolm said nothing, refusing to confirm Jon's guess.

"Am I right?" Jon prodded, needing Malcolm to recognize the decisions made had not been his alone.

Eyes dipping to the floor, Malcolm shook his head. "If I had been a little more persuasive, Trip might still be alive."

Jon took a step nearer and placed his hand on Malcolm's shoulder. "Malcolm, you can't take responsibility for something like this. You might as well blame the J'Hardinne. Or me. Don't torture yourself. Trip wouldn't want that. I know if given the choice you would trade places with him in a second.

At that, Malcolm lifted his head. Jon could see his eyes were reddened and damp. "I would, you know."

Jon nodded, his own eyes threatening to sting. "I do. And so does Trip. Believe that."

Malcolm nodded again, but didn't speak.

"You managed to save one of your two crewmates, Lieutenant," Jon said, his hand sliding down to give Malcolm's arm a squeeze before releasing it. "T'Pol tells me if you hadn't literally carried her out of there, she would have been lost as well."

"The sub-commander was incapacitated," Malcolm said, visibly pulling himself together. "That horrible noise coming from the machine nearly leveled her. I got her away from there as quickly as I could."

"And she thanks you for it," Jon assured him. "So do I."

"Thank you, sir."

Jon inclined his head. "I'm sure she'll be expressing her appreciation to you herself once she's feeling better."

"Is T'Pol still in Sickbay?" Malcolm asked, obviously troubled by the notion.

"Not any more," Jon told him. "Phlox released her just before I came here to meet with you. She's going to be fine with a little rest. I told her to go to her quarters and take it easy. I'd taken her statement while Phlox was checking her out. There's no need for her to be on duty for the next day or two."

Malcolm bobbed his head in response, then hesitated before asking, "Captain…will there be a memorial service for Commander Tucker?"

Jon hadn't really thought that far ahead. He hadn't even had the chance to do any of his own grieving for his friend. "Yes. Yes, of course. We need to do that. I'll talk to the crew about a date and time."

"Yes, sir."

"Malcolm, why don't you go get some rest yourself?" Jon said, circling around to stand behind his desk, striving with everything in him to keep his voice gentle. At the best of times his security officer was tightly wound. Now, with guilt and grief eating away at Malcolm, the lieutenant reminded him of nothing so much as a thoroughbred ready to shy at the slightest shadow. "I know how hard this has been for you—"

"Sir, I don't need any special consideration," Malcolm protested, drawing himself up to his full yet not particularly impressive height. "I assure you my personal feelings in no way impede my ability to perform my duties."

"I know that, Lieutenant," Jon replied, slipping effortlessly into Captain mode, sensing that was what his subordinate needed. "I didn't mean to imply you're somehow unfit for duty. I'm not offering you anything I don't intend to take myself."

"Sir?" Malcolm queried, brow wrinkled.

"The chance to mourn. I'm going to take the opportunity to mourn the loss of a good man. As your captain and your friend, I advise you to do the same," Jon said quietly, trying to ignore the way his throat thickened, making the words difficult to voice. "Trip deserves it, Malcolm. He deserves to be missed. Take the time to do that. For yourself and for him."

Malcolm looked like he wanted to say more, though whether it might have been to argue or acquiesce, Jon couldn't tell. In the end, the lieutenant only whispered, "Yes, sir."

"Dismissed," Jon told him with a small smile.

With one final nod, Malcolm exited the ready room, leaving Jon alone. The moment the doors slid shut, the captain dropped into his chair, rested his elbows on his desk and lowered his head into his hands.

Jesus.

Trip.

Jon knew he really shouldn't be as hard hit by what had happened as he was. After all, everyone onboard the Enterprise knew there were risks inherent in their mission—hostile first contacts, unknown pathogens, mechanical malfunctions. The crew accepted the dangers as part of the package, as the things you didn't want to write about to the folks back home. They had lost people before, of course. Dedicated members of Starfleet, brave individuals, good friends.

But Jon hadn't known any of those fallen crew members for close to ten years, hadn't stumbled home from the 602 Club with his arm wrapped around them, unsure who was holding up who, or spent Thanksgiving at their parents' home, stuffed so full of barbequed turkey and cornbread dressing he thought he'd never need to eat again.

Jon hadn't actually allowed himself to contemplate losing someone as dear to him as Trip. Trip's death tore a hole not only in the fabric of the Enterprise's command structure, but in Jon's own heart. The two men weren't just friends. Jon had loved the guy like family.

Oh God. How was he ever going to break the news to Mr. & Mrs. Tucker?

Sighing, Jon sat back and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Thankfully, he didn't need to face that particular challenge just yet. He would notify Starfleet tonight, but would wait to speak with the Tuckers until the following day. He saw no harm in allowing the couple to believe their son was alive and well for one more evening. He only wished he could accept that particular fiction as truth for awhile longer himself.

Jon suspected many of Enterprise's crew felt the same way.

Standing, Jon stretched out his lower back, wincing with satisfaction when he felt something pop at the base of his spine. It was late, but he still had so much to do. Not only did he need to record his official log of the Br'Teyn incident, but he had to notify Admiral Forrest, who had been sequestered when Jon had tried to reach the man earlier, speak to Lt. Hess about coverage in Engineering, figure out what the hell he was going to do about a memorial service for Trip, and hopefully have some kind of meaningful conversation with a member of the J'Hardinne Resettlement Committee. Unfortunately, he doubted that last item would be crossed off his to-do list before bed.

Jon had put in a call to the committee as soon as he had learned of Trip's fate, demanding to know what onboard the Br'Teyn could have resulted not only in Trip's death, but in the deaths of the Br'teyn's passengers and crew. The senior official with whom he had spoken, a tall slender man named Minister Ku'Sateen, who had an aquiline nose, pronounced widow's peak and a mane of wavy silver hair that hung past his waist, had reacted with surprise to the news, claiming he knew of no such device. The minister had proposed calling together the rest of the committee to apprise them of what had occurred and to ask for their counsel, warning Jon this could take some time. With the J'Hardinne people scattered as they were throughout the galaxy, the committee members would first need to be located, then transported to a common location. Ku'Sateen had asked for patience, saying he would do all he could to speed the process. At the time, seeing no better recourse, Jon had reluctantly agreed.

However, spent as he now was, both physically and emotionally, Jon felt his frustration rekindling. He needed answers, damn it. Trip might be beyond Jon's ability to save, but that didn't mean the person or persons responsible for the engineer's death should be allowed to go unpunished. Whether it was malice or negligence, the guilty parties had to be brought to justice. And they would. Jon swore it, to himself and to Trip.

Shaking his head at the melodramatic turn his thoughts had taken, Jon crossed wearily to one of the room's built-in cabinets. He opened the cupboard, reached inside, and pulled out a bottle of amber colored liquid.

"I had hoped to crack you open for a happier occasion than this," Jon said, lifting the bottle to eye level. "But Trip deserves the best."

Taking the bottle's cap in hand, Jon gave it a firm twist, breaking open the container's seal. Immediately, the rich, smoky sweet scent of Irish whiskey wafted free.

"I bet Zefram Cochrane never thought his bottle of whiskey would be used to toast the dead," Jon murmured, pouring a measure into a tumbler on his desk. "Did he, dad?"

Setting the bottle down, Jon raised his glass. Taking a deep breath, he said, voice strong and steady, "To two of the men most responsible for Enterprise, her fine fast engines, and the success of her mission—my father, Henry Archer, and Starfleet's first true Chief Engineer, Charles Tucker III—both taken too young, both dearly missed."

Downing the whiskey in a single gulp, Jon closed his eyes as he reveled in the liquor burning its way down his gullet, the initial fire mellowing to a nice gentle warmth. Standing there, blind to his surroundings and lost in his melancholy, Jon was startled into awareness by a strange sound; a twirling followed by a soft thud. He opened his eyes, searching for the source of the disturbance. When he found it, he frowned in confusion.

The bottle cap lay on the floor, inches from the desk.

"How did that happen?" Jon wondered, setting down his glass.

He hadn't felt any sort of mild turbulence or shuddering. The desk was level and nothing else had been affected.

"Guess it was closer to the edge than I thought," Jon murmured with a shrug, reaching down to retrieve the round piece of plastic.

And screwing the top back on the bottle, he thought no more about it.

* * *

Long after Captain Archer had put both Porthos and himself to bed, T'Pol sat cross-legged on the floor in her quarters, barefoot and pajama-clad. Her eyes were shut, her breathing slow and deep. Seemingly the very picture of tranquility, she willed herself to stop shaking.

The trembling was normal, Phlox had assured her in Sick Bay, a by-product of the internal beating her nervous system had suffered. It would pass in the next eight to twelve hours. He could offer her a sedative if she liked, something to help her sleep. When she awoke, all would be good as new.

Except Commander Tucker. He wouldn't be there to greet her when she opened her eyes, smiling at her in welcome as he so often had when he caught sight of her.

Because he was dead.

And T'Pol had been unable to do anything to save him.

Logically, she knew she could have done nothing to prevent the commander's death. No one had recognized the full measure of danger onboard the Br'Teyn. They had been given no warnings by the J'Hardinne, no true idea of what had awaited them. The hours they had spent investigating the upper two decks had lulled the away team into a false sense of security. By the time they had realized what was happening, she was clinging like a limpet to Lieutenant Reed, who was doing everything in his meager power to get the two of them out of harm's way.

While they had fled, the lieutenant had been focused solely on her. No one had been available to help Commander Tucker. His two friends had left him behind, wounded and utterly vulnerable.

And even though she knew neither she nor Lieutenant Reed had possessed any other options, T'Pol couldn't help but feel as if they had failed Commander Tucker…Trip, had deserted him in a way he never would have done to them if their positions have been reversed.

It was an emotional response, of course, colored by her affection for Enterprise's chief engineer and her guilt at his demise, a reaction devoid of reason, unsupported by fact.

Yet her response was true and honest just the same, and so painful at that moment, T'Pol wondered if she would ever fully recover.

She had tried on more than one occasion to explain to Commander Tucker the motivation behind a Vulcan's need for emotional suppression. While she believed the commander had understood the reasoning involved, he never seemed to fully appreciate the choice.

"So you don't allow yourself to feel anything?" he had once queried, seemingly appalled at the notion. The two of them had been sitting across from each other, sharing a table in the mess hall. They had stayed up late, working in tandem to align the sensor array at her station. No one else had been about that night; they had enjoyed the place all to themselves.

"It is not that we do not feel," she had said, correcting him, her hands wrapped loosely around her mug of chamomile tea. "We simply control our reactions."

He had frowned at that. "But why would you want to do that?"

"Because to give in to our emotions would be to open a door to our most primitive natures."

"Primitive, huh?" he had teased with a mock leer before dropping the pose when faced with her annoyance. Chuckling to himself despite her censure, he had taken a sip of his coffee.

"Vulcans were not always as we are now," she had said, striving for a calm, reasonable tone. "We were once ruled by our passions—anger, lust, jealousy. These base emotions controlled our actions to an often hazardous degree."

"You're saying you were a danger to yourselves."

"Indeed."

"Okay. I guess I can understand what you're saying, T'Pol," Trip had admitted. "But you gotta appreciate where I'm coming from."

"And where would that be?"

Trip had smiled. "You Vulcans aren't willing to feel because you don't want to become less than you are."

She had dipped her head in agreement. "That is correct."

"And I can see how you might feel that way, especially given your history" he had continued. "But sometimes…sometimes giving in to your emotions can make you more than you are. Better, even."

"In what way?" she had asked before drinking from her mug.

He had considered a moment before answering. "Well…with love for example."

"Love?"

"Sure. Earth cultures have cliché upon cliché built around that very thing," he had said, warming to his subject. "The love of a good woman reforming a bad man, how being in love makes you feel like you can climb mountains—or move them. Love makes the world go 'round! Don't know where I heard that one, but I know it's so."

"It would seem to me the saying is rather one of those clichés to which you referred," she had chided, her tone dry.

Trip had chuckled again, refusing to be swayed. "Maybe. But that doesn't make it any less true."

She hadn't replied, knowing no matter what she had said, the commander would remain unmoved. Instead, she had finished her tea and considered turning in for the night.

"Do Vulcans fall in love?" Trip had asked without warning, his quiet question taking her off guard after their moment of companionable silence.

"We feel affection for our friends and family," she had responded after a beat, choosing her words with care.

"I didn't ask you that," Trip had scolded, his voice gentle, almost intimate. "I asked if you loved. The romantic kind, you know? Roller coasters and fireworks. Your heart beating so hard you're sure it's going to burst right through your clothes when you cozy up for a kiss. The sort where everything in a room stops, literally stands still, when that one special person walks in the door. Have you ever felt like that?"

"No," she had whispered, her throat suddenly dry, despite the tea. "I have not."

"You will," he had assured her. "Or you could, if you'd let yourself."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Because of how I would undoubtedly feel when it was over," she had argued, feeling the need to push back, to regain a little of her confidence and authority. "You speak of the wonders of love, its magical qualities. And yet, it is ephemeral, is it not? It does not last."

"It can," he had said with certainty.

"Have you loved?" she had asked him, already sure of his response. "In the way in which you described to me."

"Yes."

"And was it forever?"

Trip had paused before offering her a rueful smile and a soft, "No."

She had thought she would feel a measure of satisfaction in forcing the commander to acknowledge a weakness in his case. But instead, she had felt…petty and small.

Less than what she had wanted to be.

"But that doesn't mean I'm throwing in the towel."

She had lifted her eyes from their focus on her hands. Trip had been looking at her, seemingly unaffected by her meanness. Instead he had regarded her with a warmth she had not anticipated.

"I've been kicked around a little by love, T'Pol," he had told her. "Got a little roughed up some. But that's okay. You've got to take the bitter with the sweet. That's how you recognize the good stuff when you've got it."

"It does not…bother you to be hurt unnecessarily?" she had queried, a trifle hesitant with her questioning. "You welcome such pain?"

He had laughed. "Oh, I don't know about that. 'Welcome' might be a bit strong," he had allowed. "Nobody goes into a relationship hoping to come out of it feeling bad. But if you're honest with yourself, you always know it's a possibility."

"I do not see the logic in such an action," she had said, ignoring the little voice inside her head insisting otherwise.

"I don't imagine you do," he had said, smiling still. "And that's okay. But take it from someone who knows. The pain is worth it. Every minute of it."

"Why?"

"Because the other…the sweet part…is everything the poets promise and more," he had said, his words light though his eyes were serious. "You never feel more alive. More…**more** than you are."

She had said nothing in reply, choosing instead to merely lift her brow.

"I wish that for you, T'Pol," Trip had said, looking at her intently, ignoring her implied skepticism. "To feel love that strongly. It's a gift. It truly is."

At the time, the commander's words had touched her, made her feel cherished somehow, cared for by this man she called her friend. Commander Tucker had wanted something for her he himself coveted. She might not value such a gift, but he had. And that had meant something.

But now…now she wanted no part of it, of love. Ever. Commander Tucker had not been her lover. Indeed, there had been times they had had trouble even being civil to each other. And yet, she felt his death keenly, like a physical wound. Something ached inside her, buried so deeply, yet so centrally the pain seemed to originate from that spot and radiate throughout her being. If mere friendship could hurt that badly, how would she ever survive romantic love?

She didn't know if she had the courage to find out.

Closing her eyes, she deepened her breathing, banishing her scattered thoughts, her wayward emotions, choosing instead to focus on the physical, on that which she could control.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Slowly, the agitation she had struggled with began to subside, her muscles loosened and stilled, the tremors coursing through her body easing. Gradually her psyche released its commonplace cares and concerns, and T'Pol entered a light meditative state.

She drifted there, enjoying the calm, allowing her energy to be refreshed and refocused. Her senses expanded. Lashes lowered, her mind's eye was sharp, sharing detailed images of past visions and inner vistas. She could smell the buttery odor of wax from the room's burning candles. Feel the cool, slippery fabric of her pajamas against her skin. Taste on her tongue the lingering bitterness of the tea she had drunk after returning to her quarters. Even her battered hearing opened up and shared with her the hushed humming of Enterprise's systems, the minute creaks and squeaks as the ship's massive frame shifted in flight.

T'Pol relaxed into it, gave herself over to the healing otherness obtained only when an individual becomes so aware, they're not aware at all. Until…

…the slightest, _slightest_ hint of a breeze lifted the hair feathered across her brow.

The airy caress startled her, unexpected as it was, and pulled her back to the present. She opened her eyes.

And saw nothing. Nothing unusual. The cabin was just as it had appeared before she had begun her meditation, everything perfectly in order save for the mug on her desk and the numerous flickering candles dripping wax from a half dozen different positions around her quarters. Despite the tapers' glow, the room remained dim, the pools of light surrounded by far more shadow. T'Pol stared into the darkness with an intensity she did not fully understand. What did she hope to see? Nothing was there. She was alone in her room.

Wasn't she?

Unsettled, yet unable to pinpoint why, she closed her eyes once more. This time, she had not even settled in to a comfortable seated position when she felt the breeze again, gentle and cool, but stronger this time, more like wind than draft, stirring her hair and ruffling her clothing. She opened her eyes…

To find half her candles had been snuffed. The room was even darker than before.

"Who is there?" T'Pol asked, coming to her knees, her gaze searching. "Is someone present?"

No one answered. No voice, that is. But she heard another sound.

It came from her desk. She turned her head in that direction.

Her empty mug was shuddering, trembling as if caught in an earthquake.

Yet everything else in the cabin stood rock steady and still. Including T'Pol.

Pressing to her feet, she crossed to the desk and looked down at the jittering cup. Watching it dance for a moment or two, she turned away and retrieved her scanner from the shelf above her bed. Punching a series of buttons, she analyzed the object and its phenomenon. The findings were inconclusive. Slight difference in temperature, slight surge in electrical activity. Otherwise, nothing particularly unusual to note. She reached out her hand to stop the rapid, restless motion.

The cup was cold against her palm, and willing to be subdued.

Setting aside her scanner, T'Pol considered for a moment, then headed towards the comm panel beside the door. She did not know what to make of these strange occurrences. She would need assistance to run a more detailed analysis. Perhaps Phlox's expertise…

_T'Pol_

She stopped, her fingers poised at the keypad. The tiny, nearly invisible hairs on the back of her neck lifted away from her skin.

_T'Pol_

The word made itself known to her more as breath than sound. She couldn't really hear a voice. She more _felt_ her name, the air it took to form it, the desperate intent it took to give it shape.

"Who is this?" she called, sounding surer than she actually felt. "What do you want?"

She received no reply.

"I cannot understand you," she said, speaking slowly and clearly, eyes hunting for clues. "What is your purpose?"

The answer came, not in words, but in pictures. In the opposite corner of her room, a faint glow appeared, the light hovering at eye level, foggy and indistinct. The glimmer ebbed and flowed, twisted and slithered, like smoke from a cigarette. Cautiously, T'Pol edged closer, wishing for her scanner, but worried that if she turned her back, even for an instant, the odd phenomenon would vanish.

Patiently, she watched, waited. She wasn't certain, but she thought she could see something in the mist. Some shape forming, a pattern of sorts that was familiar, though she couldn't immediately identify it.

"What are you?" she murmured, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the entity. She could have; she stood little more than arm's length away. But she refrained. "Why are you here?"

Again, she heard no response, and yet she sensed that whatever this was wanted something from her, that it was waiting for her to take some sort of action. She sensed no real threat.

Only need. A deep, sorrowful need.

She sensed…

The creature had made itself known when T'Pol had been meditating. Perhaps her heightened mental state had made such communication possible.

Folding gracefully to the floor, T'Pol settled once more into her meditative posture. Eyes open and trained on the milky field of light, she took care to reduce her rate of breathing while also deepening the amount of oxygen she inhaled until she had regained an easy, effortless rhythm. At the same time, blinking slowly, she allowed her vision to lose its focus. Soon all she surveyed blurred, like watercolors bleeding into thick paper. Still, she could see.

And what she saw astonished her.

All at once, the luminous cloud transformed, its new contours easily recognized by T'Pol, even with her compromised vision.

"Commander Tucker," she whispered from her seat on the floor. "Are you haunting me?"

* * *

To Be Continued in Chapter Six 


	6. Chapter 6

**Ghost Ship**

**by Ancastar**

Thanks for reading. I hope you're enjoying the ride. I made a few changes (a very few) to the original chapter six posted last night. Most folks probably won't notice much different. But I hope this version reads a bit smoother. Happy fanfic reading.

* * *

Chapter Six

It took two chirps of his comm panel and an answering whine from Porthos before Jonathan Archer lifted his head from the pillow and glanced over at his chronometer.

What the hell. It wasn't even 0500.

Rolling to his elbows, he shook his head, striving to clear it. He had actually heard the digital summons the first time around, yet hadn't been entirely convinced the sound was real. He hadn't gotten a lot of rest in the hours before, but what shut-eye he had managed to nab had been plagued by strange dreams.

Every one of them revolving around Trip.

Jon had never caught a glimpse of his friend, but he knew without question the engineer had been present in each scenario. Sometimes the setting had been Jon's apartment in San Francisco, sometimes it had been the tent Jon had shared with Trip in the outback during their survival training, other times it had been Jon's ready room onboard Enterprise or some other space in which Jon and Trip had spent significant time together. The location had varied, but in every instance, Jon had sensed Trip standing unseen on the other side of the door, waiting for his captain to allow him entrance.

Jon had done his very best to welcome the man home. He had turned knobs, pushed buttons, wrestled with canvas flaps and more. All to no avail. Regardless of his efforts, each and every door had remained stubbornly closed. Now, sitting blearily on the side of his bed, Jon tried something he had never thought to attempt in dreams.

"Come in," he called, dragging his fingers through his hair like a makeshift comb. Porthos reacted to the directive as if it had been intended for him. The little beagle hopped out of his doggy bed and padded over to sit at Jon's feet.

Almost at once, the door slid open to reveal T'Pol. However, standing before Jon was not the polished Vulcan officer on whom he had come to rely. In her place was simply a woman, dressed in pale blue pajamas and a flowing brocade robe, her feet bare, her eyes over bright. Although he didn't know the cause, Jon could tell T'Pol was agitated. Her slender form practically quivered with excitement.

"Sub-Commander," Jon said, pressing to his feet, conscious suddenly of his state of undress. He was clad only in his pajama bottoms. "What's going on? Is there something wrong?"

"Captain," T'Pol said, ignoring his questions and taking a step towards him, "I require your assistance."

"Of course, T'Pol," Jon assured her, concern mounting. "What is it? What do you need?"

"A Ouija board," she said without hesitation. "I must try again to communicate with Commander Tucker."

* * *

"I assure you, Doctor. I am perfectly well."

"I believe that is actually my call, Sub-Commander," Phlox chided, his gaze switching back and forth between his scanner and his most unwilling patient.

When the captain had contacted Sick Bay, saying he was bringing in his first officer to get checked out, Phlox had expected the Vulcan to be in some way weakened, stricken with a headache perhaps or impaired vision or hearing. Such was not the case. Even dressed only in sleepwear, T'Pol was a formidable woman, and most definitely not appreciative of her captain's concern. "According to these readings you are not, in fact, entirely well. Your blood pressure is elevated and your electrolytes are decidedly imbalanced. These symptoms are most certainly tied to what happened to you aboard the Br'Teyn."

"Could what happened onboard the Br'Teyn also be the cause of T'Pol's…?" Jon left the end of his question unspoken, choosing instead to gesture vaguely with his hands. Phlox tried very hard not to chuckle at his captain's discomfiture. Not that he could blame the man. The glare T'Pol was currently directing Jon's way would be enough to make even the most stalwart individual squirm.

"I see no reason to believe what happened to T'Pol could lead to hallucinations, Captain," the physician said with a helpful smile. "I assume that's what you were getting at. Rest assured her symptoms are treatable with some light medication and a good night's sleep."

"I did not hallucinate," T'Pol said, her words enunciated slowly and precisely, as if she were speaking to idiots. Which, Phlox reflected, probably wasn't all that far from the truth—at least as viewed through T'Pol's eyes. "I swear to you, Captain. I saw Commander Tucker in my quarters."

Jon sighed and rubbed his palm across his morning stubble. "T'Pol, I know you believe you saw him. But did you ever stop to think that this…vision…might have another cause, that you may have imagined seeing Trip simply because you were tired, and sad and…thinking of him?"

"No." T'Pol's countenance could have been a mask for all the emotion it imparted.

"Giving in to grief is nothing to be ashamed of," Jon said, forging on, a sympathetic smile firmly in place. "Hell, I dreamed about Trip last night—"

"I was not dreaming, Captain. What I saw was real. Commander Tucker was there."

Shaking his head as if unable to come up with still another rebuttal, Jon looked to Phlox for support. The Denobulan was happy to help, but wasn't quite certain yet just whose side of the argument he was on.

"Sub-Commander, what do you believe happened in your quarters?" the doctor asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "How is it, do you think, that Commander Tucker was able to appear to you?"

T'Pol frowned as she considered how best to respond. "I do not know. I was unable to complete a detailed analysis of the occurrence. I am certain, however, the commander was trying to communicate, first by telekinesis, then by manifesting."

"What do you think he was trying to say, T'Pol?" Jon asked, taking a step towards where the Vulcan sat, perched on the edge of a bio-bed. "And why do you feel he came to you to say it?"

T'Pol looked away, her lips pressed flat. "I do not know that either. The commander's features were difficult to make out. I was unable to hear him or see his expression clearly enough to discern what he was trying to impart. What I can tell you is the only time I was able to see him at all was while I was maintaining a relaxed meditative state."

"Why the Ouija board, then?" Jon queried, arms spread open. "If you want to attempt to communicate with Trip, why not simply try meditating again?"

T'Pol shook her head, seemingly frustrated with this line of conversation. "I tried that. I was unable to maintain contact with him for long periods of time. I found the exercise too…tiring."

"Which was no doubt due, at least in part, to the strain your body has been under the last 24 hours," Phlox said briskly, inserting himself into the discussion. "You need to rest, Sub-Commander. Your health has not yet been severely compromised, but I can't promise that won't change if you don't take care of yourself."

"But Commander Tucker—"

"Sadly, isn't going anywhere," Phlox said quietly, hoping his lack of volume somehow tempered his harsh words. "I'm sorry to say that, but it's true. If you want to try and contact him you're more likely to be successful if you're rested enough to concentrate."

"Doctor?" Jon asked, clearly surprised by Phlox's apparent support for the venture.

"I don't see the harm, Captain," the physician said, turning to address his commanding officer. "What if T'Pol is right and Commander Tucker is somehow reaching out to her? We should do all we can to assist him in that endeavor, should we not?"

"You believe in ghosts now too?" Jon asked, his brow wrinkled in disbelief.

Phlox shrugged. "I believe in T'Pol's honesty. She can have no ulterior motive in this, nor is the activity in any way dangerous. She believes in what she has seen. I see no reason not to encourage her."

"You don't?" Jon asked, clearly able to come up with at least one or two reasons himself.

Phlox smiled. "The Denobulan scientific community is split in its beliefs regarding what happens to us when we pass on. Some feel a kind of energy is released back into the cosmos upon death, others believe the process is more like a battery running out, energy being utterly depleted at the end rather than set free."

"And the afterlife?" Jon queried, folding his arms over his t-shirted chest.

Phlox lifted his brows. "Our religious teachings encourage us to believe in the constancy of our souls. But like so many other spiritual systems, the writings are a bit hazy when it comes to detailing how that tenet meshes with what we know of biology."

"Captain," T'Pol said, sliding off the bio-bed to stand between the two men. "I am not delusional, nor is what happened in my quarters the result of any lingering neurological disorder. I saw what I have told you I saw."

Nodding, Jon turned to more closely regard his second-in-command. Reaching out, he placed his hands on her shoulders. "T'Pol, I'm sorry if I've made you feel as if I doubt your judgment. My caution only comes as a result of experience.

"I know how the mind can play tricks on a person when they've experienced a loss. I've seen men hold entire conversations with dead colleagues or family members, witnessed how an event can get so twisted by an emotional response that history is remembered falsely. Trip's death is very…new. It's bound to impact his friends in ways we can't even begin to anticipate. That's just human nature."

T'Pol returned his gaze, unblinking. "Let me remind you, sir, I am not human."

Jon chuckled wryly and released her arms. "As if I could forget. I know your emotional responses tend to be somewhat different than most of the rest of the crew. But let me remind you, Sub-Commander—you have lived among us for awhile now. I wouldn't be surprised if a few of our less logical traits have had the opportunity to rub off."

T'Pol's only response was the lift of a delicately arched brow.

"Captain?"

A new, softly accented voice interrupted the proceedings. The threesome turned as one to find Malcolm Reed standing just inside the entrance to Sick Bay. Although Phlox couldn't be certain as to the reason for the lieutenant's visit, he thought perhaps the man might have come looking for the 21st century equivalent of the old prairie oyster cure. Judging from the Englishman's watery eyes, the pinched lines bracketing mouth, and the way he held his head as if he expected at any moment for it to shatter atop his neck, Phlox guessed Malcolm might have indulged a bit the night before.

And was living to regret it the morning after.

"Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?" Phlox asked, crossing to the newcomer.

Malcolm glanced towards his commanding officer then back again. "I…uh…was on my way to see you, Doctor—headache—when I came across Ensign Pollard. She said she had seen the captain escorting Sub-Commander T'Pol to Sick Bay. Is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine, Lieutenant," T'Pol assured him, stepping away from the captain and towards the other two men.

"It was just a precaution, Malcolm," Jon added with a small smile. "We were actually on our way out."

"Lieutenant," T'Pol began, coming nearer still to Malcolm. "I wonder…did you experience any unusual circumstances last evening?"

"Unusual in what way?" Malcolm asked, forehead furrowed.

"Did you see or hear anything odd before you went to bed?" Jon asked, also taking a step now towards the lieutenant. "Have any funny dreams?"

Malcolm looked away, suddenly seemingly fascinated with the floor, before once again meeting his captain's eyes. Phlox didn't need any of his many degrees to recognize the armory officer's deep embarrassment.

"I'm afraid I was a bit out of it last night, sir. I took your advice and retired to my quarters. Once there, I pulled out a bottle of Scotch I'd been nursing these past several months to drink to Trip's memory. When I started, the bottle was over half full. By the time my head hit the pillow, it was empty. Sorry to say, I don't recall much after the fourth or fifth shot."

Jon smiled in understanding and shook his head. "Quite all right, Lieutenant. I'll admit, I followed a similar course of action myself."

"May I ask why you were inquiring, sir?" Malcolm asked, apparently thankful his captain was willing to overlook conduct unbecoming an officer.

"I was visited in my quarters last night by an entity that had the appearance of Commander Tucker," T'Pol said as calmly as if she had just recited that night's dinner menu.

"You saw Trip's ghost?" Malcolm asked, utterly incredulous.

"Quite possibly," T'Pol murmured, unmoved by the lieutenant's reaction. "It is that very prospect Captain Archer, the doctor and myself have been discussing."

"How is, rather…so, uh…so what conclusion have you reached?" Malcolm stammered, crossing his arms almost defensively against his chest.

"We are going to test my theory by holding what I believe is known as a séance," T'Pol told him, her expression bland as vanilla.

"Beg pardon?" Malcolm all but squeaked.

"T'Pol believes the only way to confirm her version of events is to attempt to contact Trip ourselves," Jon explained with a look in the direction of his science officer. She solemnly returned his gaze. "She thinks, given some strange incidences involving objects moving on their own, that a classic Ouija board may be the best way to proceed. After much consideration, I've decided it couldn't hurt to give it a try."

"Bloody hell," Malcolm murmured, sagging back against the row of cabinets, his eyes lowered.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" Phlox asked, bending down to try and get a look at the other man's face.

Malcolm lifted his head and let out a not entirely convincing chuckle. "I suppose so. At least, as well as I can expect to be with the devil's own hangover and a friend apparently trying to make contact from beyond the grave."

"It's hit all of us pretty hard, Malcolm," Jon said quietly.

"When are you planning to attempt this, sir?" Malcolm asked.

"At once," T'Pol answered promptly.

"This evening should be plenty early enough," Phlox said, smoothly contradicting the Vulcan.

"Captain!" T'Pol protested, appealing to her commanding officer.

Before Jon could speak, however, Phlox interceded once more. "I'm sorry, T'Pol. But as Commander Tucker, or whatever that was, appeared to you only when you were in a controlled mental state, it is of the utmost importance that you be rested and nourished before even attempting to contact him again. I can assist you with the former by administering a mild sedative. Once I do, I want you to sleep for at least eight hours and eat a nutritious meal. Then, and only then, will I give you medical leave to hold your séance."

"Such precautions are unnecessary, Doctor," T'Pol said tightly, her annoyance now focused squarely on the Denobulan rather than on her human captain. "I promise you."

"You heard the man, T'Pol," Jon said, seemingly pleased to have the heat off of him for a change and on to another member of the crew. "In medical matters, Dr. Phlox's authority supersedes mine."

T'Pol said nothing for a beat before capitulating. "Very well. If you would be so kind as to administer the sedative now, Doctor, I will return to my quarters. The sooner we can move forward with this endeavor, the better."

"1800 hours should be soon enough, Sub-Commander," Jon said, grinning when T'Pol's gaze grew thunderous. "You need your rest and the quartermaster needs to figure out how to fabricate an accurate Ouija board. I'll talk to him about it when I leave here."

"Fine," T'pol said shortly, her patience seemingly at an end. "We will meet in my quarters at 1800 hours. As that is where the entity first appeared, it seems only logical the ceremony should be held there."

"If you don't mind, I should like to attend," Phlox said with a smile. "If for no other reason than scientific curiosity."

"If I may," Malcolm interjected, his tone subdued, "I would like to be there as well. Trip was my friend. I want to hear what he has to say. Didn't really have an opportunity to say goodbye. It seems like this may be the best chance any of us will get."

T'Pol nodded, her expression grave. "Agreed. We four will meet in my room tonight. I would ask that none of you be late."

* * *

Malcolm had never really spent a great deal of time in T'Pol's quarters. He had been there once or twice before, of course, often in the company of Trip or the captain. But he had never done much more than take a quick peek inside. He had no clear memory of the room's décor or furnishings. Thus he was surprised to discover how intimate the chamber was, how much more personalized than his own rather Spartan accommodations. T'Pol had taken care to adorn the place with just enough pieces from her home world to give it true Vulcan character. The result was elegant, yet spare.

Not unlike the Sub-Commander herself.

"Lieutenant," T'Pol said, greeting him at the door, dressed in her customary one-piece uniform rather than pajamas he had seen her wear that morning. "Good of you to be on time. Once the doctor arrives, we can begin."

"Good evening, Sub-Commander," Malcolm said, stepping into the room. "I hope you're doing well."

T'Pol's tone was withering, although her answer was polite. "Yes, thank you. Doctor Phlox was correct. Sleep and nourishment were all that were required."

In preparation for the evening's activities, T'Pol had chosen to illuminate the room merely with flickering candlelight. Cushions were arranged in the center of the floor, surrounding a low table with an authentic Ouija board centered on top. The space had a hushed, expectant quality not unlike what Malcolm typically associated with church. He wondered if perhaps he should have taken his shoes off upon entering or at the very least have lowered his voice.

Moving further inside, Malcolm saw the captain standing by T'Pol's desk.

"Feeling better this evening, Malcolm?" Jon asked, a glint of humor in his eye.

"Yes, sir," Malcolm answered with a measure of chagrin. "Thank you for asking. You'd be amazed what dose of analgesic, a vitamin shot and a couple liters of water will do for a man."

"Not so amazed," Jon said with a rueful smile. "I've taken the cure a time or two myself."

Further conversation was curtailed by a blip from the comm panel. Phlox had arrived.

"I trust I haven't kept you waiting long," the Denobulan said as he bustled inside. "I was about to leave Sick Bay when Chef came in with a particularly nasty cut on his index finger. I've warned him about that cleaver of his."

Malcolm's still tender stomach rolled at the mental image the remark invoked. Glancing towards the captain, he saw Jon grimace as well.

"Not at all," T'Pol assured the physician, seemingly unaffected by Chef's cooking mishap. "You are actually not late at all. Gentlemen, if we may begin?"

Following their hostess' lead, the three men took their places at the table, the captain to T'Pol's right, Malcolm to her left, and Phlox sitting opposite.

"So how exactly is this thing supposed to work?" Malcolm queried, scrutinizing the archaic board.

"According to my research, we are to place our fingertips lightly on the planchette," T'Pol said.

"You mean this pointer?" Jon asked, gesturing to the device.

"Yes," T'Pol replied, tucking her legs comfortably beneath her. "Once we have relaxed and focused our energies, we should be able to invite the entity here and ask it questions. When that happens, this indicator should then slide and land on the being's responses."

"How do we know the creature we contact will be the same one you encountered last night," Phlox asked, sitting tailor style.

T'Pol hesitated, then shook her head. "We will not know for certain. At least not at first. I will endeavor to concentrate on the image I saw of Commander Tucker. Hopefully that will be enough to recall the same being. When it makes itself known we can ask it a question whose answer only the commander would know."

"That task is probably best left up to you, Captain," Phlox noted. "You knew the commander better than anyone."

Jon nodded.

"Very well," T'Pol said, reaching out her slender hands and balancing the pads of her fingers on the planchette. "Please ready yourselves. Close your eyes and focus on your breath. I will lead us through a brief relaxation exercise."

Malcolm did as he was asked, and turned his focus to the air rushing throughout his respiratory system. Eyes shut, he did his best to forget Enterprise and the men and women who lived onboard. Instead, he zeroed in on T'Pol's low, soothing voice.

"Inhale deeply through your nose and exhale through your mouth. Pay attention to the expansion and release of your rib cage. Feel the air fill your lungs, swelling the tissue like balloons."

This was all rather new to the lieutenant. Despite having spent a good portion of his childhood in Asia, he had never really taken to meditation. The best way he had ever found to release tension was in a gym, preferably with the use of a heavy punching bag.

"Allow yourself to let go of cares, abandon petty concerns. Focus only on the here and now. Be aware of the weight of your clothes, the temperature of the room, the sound of your breath."

Listening to her now, Malcolm was struck anew by how much he admired T'Pol's hard-won calm, the discipline with which she ran her life. Although their points of view were often poles apart, he acknowledged certain similarities between himself and his Vulcan crewmate. Both took themselves and their jobs very seriously, both came from families who disapproved of some of the choices they had made, both held themselves apart from many of their coworkers, sometimes without even meaning to.

Both had counted Trip amongst their dearest friends.

Malcolm had always marveled at that, how he and the laid-back southerner had grown so close so quickly. He recognized what had happened aboard Shuttlepod One had gone a long way towards cementing their friendship. But he knew the camaraderie that had flourished between them had actually started much earlier, probably not long after they had left space dock.

"As your awareness narrows and your existence centers only on what is happening in the present, here, in this room, you should feel a kind of buoyancy develop. Your muscles slacken, loose bulk and solidity. Your being becomes no weightier than a feather, floating on the air you continue to draw slowly and deeply into your lungs."

Malcolm would be lying if he said he hadn't sometimes envied Trip's ready charm, the way the engineer had been able to laugh at his mistakes while at the same time learning from them. Trip had been the kind of person it seemed you had always known, even if you had only spent an hour or two in his presence. He had understood who he was, and had been happy with that person.

"Please open your eyes while maintaining an even breathing pattern."

Maybe that was it. Trip had always been so comfortable in his own skin. Perhaps T'Pol and he had hoped a little of that ease would find its way to them.

"Gentlemen."

Again, Malcolm did as he was told, and opened his eyes. The captain and Phlox looked back at him, their gazes a trifle unfocused, yet both seemingly as centered and relaxed as he. Only T'Pol's eyes remained closed. No doubt to help maintain her meditative state, Malcolm mused. They were counting on her to be the lightning rod, to be the person to lure Trip—if that's really who he was—from his other place.

"Gently now, let us begin moving the planchette," T'pol instructed, her voice a low husky murmur. "Slowly, just to get the feel of it."

It took a moment for the four of them to move as one. But finally, allowing T'Pol to guide them in this as in all else, the small plastic pointer began to glide across the board. After a minute or two, Malcolm honestly couldn't tell who was directing the motion any longer. The device seemed to move of its own accord.

"We ask for Commander Charles Tucker III to join us," T'Pol whispered after a time, the soft words sending a shiver rolling down Malcolm's spine. T'Pol didn't sound like herself. She sounded…disconnected. Like she wasn't really there. "Trip? Can you hear us? We ask that you appear."

At first, nothing happened. Which came as a sort of relief to Malcolm. As greatly as he wanted to see his friend again, the Englishman had never held much with ghosts and spirits. Had he been asked, he would have stated most adamantly they didn't exist. Now, as he sat challenging that perspective, waiting to see if he had been wrong all these years, he was coming to realize he wasn't all that certain he wanted his world view altered. Malcolm would miss Trip until the day he died. But perhaps it would be for the best if the engineer had already moved on.

The universe was complicated enough without ghosts.

Then it began. Gradually. The increments so subtle, Malcolm didn't even notice anything at first.

Little by little, the temperature in the room began to drop, edging slowly down the scale until a slight chill hung in the air.

Then Malcolm became aware of something like tiny benign needles pricking at his skin. The sensation didn't hurt; rather it incited him somehow, as if the feeling was the physical manifestation of anticipation.

And finally, the planchette began move faster, swooping and swirling beneath their fingertips until it became clear to all who touched it, the pointer really was traveling under its own power.

Malcolm didn't know whether to be thrilled or terrified.

"Do you sense that?" Jon whispered, his eyes searching the darkened room.

"Yes," Phlox replied, the word equally soft and wary.

"He is here," T'Pol breathed, her chin tilting towards the ceiling.

And the planchette skimmed to the corner of the board…

…where landed on the word YES.

"Trip?" Jon ventured, his gaze returning to the board. "Is that you?"

The pointer moved away from YES only to quickly return.

"How can we know for sure?" Malcolm asked, looking over towards the captain, the adrenaline pumping through the armory officer obliterating all his former calm.

Jon frowned for a moment then said, "There was a time we double-dated. You set me up with the sister of a girl you were seeing and the four of us went out for Chinese at the Red Peony. What were the girls' last names?"

The planchette sat still for a moment as if in thought. Then it slid rapidly across the board, landing on letter upon letter, spelling furiously.

"D-E-L-A-N-E-Y," Malcolm reported aloud, feeling slightly silly as he read.

"Captain, is that correct?" Phlox queried, clearly excited by what was occurring.

Jon nodded and smiled. "Corrine and Patrice Delaney. Two redheaded Irishwomen with a weakness for rum and cokes and Starfleet officers in uniform."

"You'll have to tell us about them sometime, sir," Malcolm said with an answering lift of his lips.

"I have a story or two I can share," Jon assured him, his smile widening.

"Why are you here, Commander?" T'Pol asked, reminding them of their purpose, her head once again level, her eyes still sealed shut. "What is it you want?"

Again, the planchette hesitated before it moved. Finally though it bounced along the line of letters, landing on the four it needed.

"Help?" Phlox queried when the word became recognized. "Help who? Help us?"

The pointer felt as if it were vibrating beneath their fingers. Without warning, it darted first to one corner of the board, then the other.

"No, yes?" Jon said, perplexed by the response. "I don't understand. Which is it, Trip? Who needs help?"

The planchette circled lazily for a time before heading once more towards specific letters.

"J-H-A-R-D," Malcolm spelled before glancing at the others surrounding the board. "The J'Hardinne?"

Almost instantly the pointer shot to YES.

"Why?" Jon asked. "What can we do to help them?"

Surprisingly, the pointer didn't move. It sat upon the word YES, still as death.

"Commander…Trip," T'Pol said, her voice taking on a sweet coaxing quality Malcolm had never heard from her before. "You must be clear. We will help you, but you must tell us how to proceed. Why do the J'Hardinne need assistance? Why do you?"

Slowly, the planchette began shimmying again as if trying to find the energy to make one more pass across the board. Just when Malcolm had decided the poor thing was too exhausted to have another go, the pointer began moving in earnest, aimlessly at first, then in a more targeted fashion, quickly finding the letters necessary to impart its message.

"N-O-T…" Malcolm murmured, naming the letters aloud as he had before, only to stop when he realized what he was spelling. "Wait… That's not possible. That can't… How is that possible?"

Jon shook his head, eyes locked on the board, seemingly as aghast as his lieutenant. "I-I don't know. I'm not sure I understand…"

Rather than stopping after completing its communication, the planchette picked up its pace, moving with increasing speed across the board, its path erratic.

"What's it spelling?" Phlox asked, his hectic gaze doing its best to follow the piece of plastic. "It's moving too fast for me to make any sense of it."

"I don't know," Malcolm admitted, having a hard time even maintaining contact with the device. His fingers kept slipping off. "Gibberish mostly, I think. I wish we had thought to record this. Perhaps it's some kind of code."

"Trip, you've got to slow down," Jon said, his eyes now closed like T'Pol's, apparently trying to reach out as the Vulcan had. "You're losing us, buddy. We don't know what you're trying to say."

With that, the planchette skated to the far edge of the board, away from any letters or symbols. But rather than rebound as before, the pointer kept going, flying from beneath the foursome's fingertips. Away from the board and all of them, it crashed against the opposite wall.

"What the hell?" Jon said, his eyes snapping open. "Trip?"

Suddenly, the temperature plunged another few degrees, the cold noticeable now on Malcolm's hands and face. He could feel something happening, an increase in pressure building inside the room, the sensation reminding him rather unpleasantly of the cargo bay onboard the Br'Teyn.

"What is that?" Phlox asked, pointing towards the corner of the room.

"Oh my God," Malcolm whispered, the words like a prayer.

A ball of light was forming, the orb changeable and dim.

"It's just like T'Pol described," Jon said, rising now to his knees. "This is what happened before she saw Trip."

Malcolm looked over towards the Vulcan, thinking to gauge her reaction. What did she make of the phenomenon?

Apparently, nothing at all. T'Pol sat unaware, her eyes still closed, her hands balanced atop her lap, fingers touching.

"What do you suppose she's doing?" he asked Phlox, worried by the woman's stillness.

The doctor tore his eyes away from what was happening in the corner of the room to peer across the table at T'Pol. "I'd guess she is doing everything in her power to hold on to her connection with Commander Tucker. Somehow, she has been able to reach him. It would appear she is unwilling to let him go."

"Is that a face?" Jon asked quietly, standing as he spoke. "Do either of you see a face?"

Malcolm turned back towards the corner. The light had grown in intensity, moving now, floating approximately two meters from the ground, all the while changing shape and density. Yet he couldn't make out any particular features.

"I see it," Phlox murmured after a time. "Oh good heavens. Do you think--?"

Jon took a step towards the apparition. "Yes, doctor. I do."

"Captain," Malcolm protested, rising to his feet as well. "Sir, shouldn't you…do you think it's safe?"

Jon looked over his shoulder at Malcolm, a strange small smile tugging at his lips. "Yes, Lieutenant. I believe it is." Turning back to the light, Jon moved closer still.

Following his commanding officer's gaze, Malcolm's jaw dropped open. At last he saw what the doctor and captain had already seen.

A well-known profile, a familiar set of shoulders…

"Good Lord, Trip," he whispered, coming to stand beside Jon. "Is that really you?"

"It would appear so, Lieutenant," Phlox said from just behind them, now standing as well. "Yet, if the last message relayed through the board is to be believed, not Commander Tucker's ghost."

"Not a ghost at all," Jon said, his eyes shining, his smile wider than before. "Trip's 'not dead'. Perhaps none of the Br'Teyn's passengers are. Now we just have to figure out how to get them all back with us, safe and sound."

* * *

To be continued in Chapter 7 


	7. Chapter 7

Ghost Ship

by Ancasta

Sorryit's been awhile since I last posted. This is what happens when you have an unexpected surgery, two major holidays, move, and work two jobs.

Be afraid. Be very afraid. ;-)

This is a bit of a bridge chapter. It's more dialogue than action, but necessary overall.

I think…

Thanks for your support to this point. I really appreciate the comments. I hope you're enjoying the ride.

* * *

Chapter Seven 

"I'm sorry, Minister, but 48 hours is nowhere near soon enough."

Jonathan Archer stood, legs locked, in the center of Enterprise's bridge and frowned up at the screen before him. Minister Ku'Sateen's calm visage returned his look, utterly unfazed by the human's impatience.

"I understand your urgency, Captain, and sympathize. But I do not see how the J'Hardinne can accommodate you any more than we already are," the Minister said. "We have located the scientist responsible for the machine your officers discovered and are ferrying him to you with all due haste. What more can you ask of us?"

"To share with us your knowledge," Jon said, taking a step towards the viewer. "To give us what we need to rescue those lost onboard the Br'Teyn."

Ku'Sateen shook his head. "That is impossible, Captain. You and I both know it. We cannot tell you how to program the machine. The technology involved is decades, perhaps centuries beyond your own development. It belongs to us and us alone. In this, we cannot be generous."

Jon's mouth pressed tight and his eyes dipped away before returning to the minister. "Let me assure you—I don't give a damn about your technology. I have no intention of trying to steal it or use it for the advancement of humankind. All I care about is saving our people—yours and mine."

"We will do exactly that. In two days time."

"Minister," said a feminine voice off to Jon's left. T'Pol stood at her station, and crossed around and down to stand beside her commanding officer. "What you fail to consider is we might not have two days."

Jon studied the woman at his side. T'Pol had been oddly restrained since the séance, even for her. After Trip's hold on the real world had weakened and he had faded from T'Pol's quarters, the Vulcan had wilted as well, curling over to lie wearily on her side. Phlox had rushed to her aid, only to be told she required no assistance. She was tired, she had said, and had pressed to her feet. She needed rest, she had told her crewmates, that was all. Assured by Phlox nothing substantial appeared wrong, Jon had left T'Pol in her quarters, not expecting to see her any further that day. Much to his surprise, she had appeared on the bridge a few hours later, alert, yet to Jon's eyes still fatigued. All inquiries as to her health had been brushed aside as inconsequential. Jon was still not convinced.

"On what evidence do you base this claim, Sub-Commander?" queried Ku'Sateen. "We have no historical data to suggest those lost are in any particular danger. Indeed this event is so unprecedented, we have nothing with which to compare it at all. Why do you draw such dire conclusions?"

T'Pol hesitated before replying, her eyes darting towards Jon before once more engaging the J'Hardinne minister. The bridge crew watched, anxiously awaiting her reply.

"It was something I felt when first attempting to communicate with Commander Tucker," T'Pol said, her explanation seemingly reluctant. Jon got the impression T'Pol viewed the information she was about to impart as private, a matter she would have preferred to confess to the minister alone, if at all. Jon wondered at that, at the sort of communion shared by this Vulcan woman and the human man she was trying so desperately to save.

What could they have learned of each other in so intimate a bond? What mysteries might they both have imparted? "The Commander was not waiting passively for me to contact him, but rather reaching out to me, to this plane, on his own. I sensed such an effort was…difficult for him."

"As it would be," Ku'Sateen said mildly, "given the circumstances."

"You do not understand," T'Pol insisted, a measure of temper sharpening her words. "Last night, when the commander appeared onboard Enterprise once more, his life force was…weaker than before. Significantly so."

"Your captain told me Commander Tucker had not only been able to manifest, but to move objects, to communicate with you and your crewmates through a board with symbols and words," Ku'Sateen said with a frown.

"Yes, this is true," T'Pol affirmed. "The commander was able to muster enough energy to make his presence known, but at a great cost. Psychically, it felt to me like a wound had been opened in him. This…injury was slowly bleeding away his essence."

Jon turned to his science officer, appalled. "My God, T'Pol. You never said anything."

"What was there to say, Captain?" T'Pol asked, directing her gaze in his direction. "Such information served no purpose until now."

Jon had to admit she had a point. As much as he wanted to, he had little means to rescue Trip on his own. Still, Jon could not allow such behavior on the part of one of his senior officers to go uncommented upon. He planned on addressing the issue at the earliest opportunity.

"I could feel the difference when he came to me the second time," T'Pol continued, her voice low and persuasive. "The connection was erratic and ultimately short-lived. Although it seemed as if he tried just as hard as before, the commander struggled with control, with being able to manifest at all."

"If his being was so greatly compromised, how did he ultimately manage to come to you?" Ku'Sateen asked, the question sounding to Jon merely curious, not judgmental.

"I lent him my strength," T'Pol said.

Jon once more felt his heart drop to his toes. "What are you saying, T'Pol?"

"When Commander Tucker's energy ran out, I sustained him with my own," she said, turning to face her captain, the look in her eyes challenging, as if daring Jon to question her decision.

As much as he wanted to, Jon couldn't. He knew, in her shoes, he would have done the exact same thing. Still, her actions provided yet more fodder for the discussion to come.

"Think for a moment, Minister," T'Pol implored, her attention again focused on the view screen. "Commander Tucker disappeared from the Br'Teyn over 24 hours ago; your people more than two days before that. The technology of which your people are so protective is designed to change matter. Change it. Not put it in stasis."

Ku'Sateen's brow furrowed. "What are you getting at, Sub-Commander?"

T'Pol took a step closer to the large screen. "Commander Tucker is fighting the transformation, clinging to his corporeal self with every drop of energy he possesses."

"You know that absolutely?" Ku'Sateen asked.

"I do," T'Pol said without hesitation. "The second time he came to me, when I offered him my energy as sustenance, a link grew between us, a bond formed."

"A bond?" Jon echoed, striving to make sense of it all. "What sort of bond? A psychic one?"

"In some ways, yes," T'Pol said, inclining her head. "In other ways, no, not at all. I do not have words to describe it. I have never experienced anything like it."

"What of my people?" Ku'Sateen said, seemingly intrigued in spite of himself. "What did you sense of them?"

"Nothing," T'Pol admitted. "At least…not in the way I intuited the commander."

"How do we even know if they're still alive?" Ku'Sateen asked, almost to himself.

"We do not," T'Pol said. "Not for certain. And yet, I believe there is cause for hope. We experienced telekinesis onboard the Br'Teyn that is consistent with the way Commander Tucker made himself known onboard Enterprise. Such occurrences suggest at least some of the Br'Teyn's passengers have struggled against their conversion. We may be able to save those. With your help."

The minister said nothing at first, choosing instead to look down and away. Jon was about to step in when T'Pol spoke once more.

"According to the ship's manifest, Minister, twenty-two children were onboard the Br'Teyn, some as young as two years," T'Pol said, her gaze unblinking. "Are you prepared to sacrifice them, their parents, for pride?"

That struck a nerve. "This is not about pride--!"

"Nor should it be," T'Pol replied. "Not when you have the means to save 100 lives. Technology is inconsequential indeed when measured against that."

Ku'Sateen did not argue. He merely stared down from the screen, his expression troubled, before saying, "You have given us much to consider. I will consult with my fellow ministers and tell you of our final decision."

"Please don't be long, Minister," Jon advised. "You know what's at stake."

"Yes," Ku'Sateen agreed. Then his image blinked away, replaced by a starkly beautiful star field.

No one moved at first, perhaps considering what had been divulged. Then Jon turned to his second-in-command.

"Sub-Commander, in my ready room, now."

T'Pol inclined her head and followed Jon as he led them away. Those left on the bridge did their best to hide their interest in the proceedings.

Once he and his Vulcan crewmate were behind closed doors and Jon had taken a seat at his desk, he paused before speaking to once more consider his science officer. She stood before his desk, her gaze not meeting his, her posture straight and taut. Jon thought he spied shadows not only beneath her expressive eyes, but swimming in their depths as well. T'Pol looked worn and worried and…fragile, a word he couldn't remember ever having associated with her before, even given the slightness of her build.

"Do you want to tell me your reasons why?" he asked far more gently than he had intended. "Or should I just launch into how, if you ever do anything like that again, I'll ship you back to Vulcan so quickly the trip home will pass in a blur?"

T'pol's brow creased ever so slightly; her eyes were focused on the floor. "Sir, while I have no defense for my actions, I can assure you they were unpremeditated. I only sought to assist Commander Tucker."

"I'm not angry about what you did to help Trip," Jon said. "I understand the impulse and doubt I would have been able to resist the temptation had I been in your place. It's your keeping information from me I'm finding difficult to understand or condone."

With that, T'Pol lifted her head. "In retrospect, it was perhaps not the correct decision. However my intent was not malicious. I did it to spare you. I knew the pressure you were under in trying to save the commander and that you were already doing everything you could to gain the J'Hardinne's assistance. I saw no purpose in adding an even greater burden."

Of all the excuses she could have given him, this was one he had least expected. T'Pol's words infuriated Jon. "For crying out loud, T'Pol, don't try and **manage** me! I'm not an overtired toddler. I'm a starship captain."

"I'm aware of that, sir."

"Then act like it, Sub-Commander! Don't lie to me. Tell me the truth. That's what I need from you, what I need from all my crew."

"I did not precisely lie—"

"Sin of omission, T'Pol. Sin of omission."

She nodded and looked away again.

"God, don't you get it?" Jon asked, driving his point home. "I need to be able to trust you. To trust what you're telling me is the whole story, not some Vulcan approved abridged edition."

T'Pol swallowed hard, then assured him quietly, "You can trust me."

"I've always been able to," Jon agreed, willing himself not to view the situation from T'Pol's perspective, not to lose the edge his anger gave him just because she was so obviously troubled by his words. Such compassion would be a grave disservice. To both of them. "This kind of behavior raises some questions, though, don't you think? I can't have reason to doubt you, T'Pol. Don't make me wonder about your integrity."

The woman standing before him straightened her spine and lifted her chin. Her now clear brown eyes met his squarely and unflinchingly.

"You will have no such reason ever again, Captain. I give you my word."

Jon held her gaze a beat longer, though he really didn't need to. His point had been made, as had his decision. "Good," he said at last. "Your word is all I ask for."

"Thank you, sir." T'Pol said, relaxing her stance just a fraction.

The matter settled, John sighed and reached up to massage the back of his neck. God. He felt like he had a steel rod back there rather than muscle holding his head erect. "Are you ready to tell me about it now?"

"About Commander Tucker's…condition?"

"If that's what you want to call it. Is Trip going to make it, T'Pol?"

She hesitated. "I don't know."

"Sit down. Tell me everything."

T'Pol did as she was bid and took a seat opposite Jon. "I do not know that I would have noticed a problem last evening had I not had the earlier communication with the commander. It was the first encounter that allowed me to realize how much he had deteriorated the second time he manifested."

"Have you been able to…really communicate with Trip?" Jon asked, gesturing with his hands when the proper words wouldn't come. "You know…speak with him, hear his voice in your head."

T'Pol shook her head. "No. It is more a sense I get. Almost as if I were in Commander Tucker's mind, his body. I receive impressions of how he feels, what he wants, but no detailed exchange of information."

Jon tightened his jaw, dreading what he knew was to come. "What exactly have you learned?"

T'Pol folded her hands in her lap and hesitated before she spoke, apparently considering how best to phrase her answer. Jon's worry ratcheted up a notch.

"The commander's will is strong," T'Pol said at last. "He doesn't entirely understand what has happened to him, but he realizes he is no longer where we are. He feels as if something is drawing him away from here, from us. Yet, despite the changes being forced upon him, he is unwilling to go without a fight."

"Go where?" Jon asked with a frown.

T'Pol shook her head. "I do not know exactly what impact the machine had on Commander Tucker's physical form or on those of the J'Hardinne. They are no longer corporal, but I do not know what they are on their way to becoming or even where they 'are' at present."

"Another dimension?"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps they are with us even now. We just can't see them."

"And Trip is fighting what has happened to him," Jon murmured more to himself than to the woman sitting across from him, wondering how a person would even go about waging such a battle.

"Yes," T'Pol agreed, her expression solemn. "But with every act of defiance, his life force, or energy if you like, is being drained. I sensed that too. The problem was only exacerbated when he appeared in my quarters."

"Drained how, though?" Jon asked, not fully understanding the danger his friend apparently faced. "What will that mean if we're able to bring Trip back? What kind of shape will he be in physically when he returns?"

Again, T'Pol paused before answering. "I do not know."

But, despite their recent conversation, Jon didn't think that was strictly true. T'Pol might not know for sure. But she most certainly had at least a couple theories under consideration. She just didn't want to share. "We could get him back as a corpse, couldn't we?"

T'Pol's eyes slid away from his, her words soft. "It is possible."

"Shit," Jon said, horrified at the very notion, his shoulders slumping.

"Which is why it is imperative we convince the J'Hardinne to assist us with their technology. I do not know how long Commander Tucker and the others can hold out."

Almost as if on cue, Jon's comm console chirped.

"Bridge to the captain," called Hoshi through the speaker.

Casting a look in T'Pol's direction, Jon punched a button. "Archer here."

"Captain, we're being hailed by Minister Ku'Sateen."

T'Pol leaned forward in her seat, her hands holding tightly to the arms of the chair.

"Put the call through here," Jon said, not wanting to waste even the few minutes it would take to head up to the bridge. A moment later, Ku'Sateen's long, narrow face filled Jon's computer screen.

"Captain," the minister said in greeting, "I have spoken to the others on our ruling council. We have considered what you and your science officer have said."

"I hope you have good news, Minister," Jon said, trying to ignore the way his heart pounded almost painfully in his chest, racing with a mix of anticipation and dread.

Ku'Sateen pursed his lips before replying, "It would seem that I do."

Jon glanced at T'Pol. She met his gaze before sighing with obvious relief.

"You shall have the help you seek. I am getting ready to send you initial documentation on the device found in the cargo hold of the Br'Teyn; more information will follow as we receive it. Should you have any questions regarding this material, the man responsible for building the machine will also be made available to you via long-range communication."

A grin split Jon's face wide. "Thank you, Minister. Thank you very much. We really appreciate your help."

Ku'Sateen smiled in response. "You are welcome. You should also know one of our medical ships is on its way to assist with the rescue. I fear your sick bay might be overtaxed trying to deal with all those onboard the Br'Teyn."

"Let's all pray we have a reason for sick bay to be overtaxed," Jon replied.

"Let us indeed," Ku'Sateen agreed. "The J'Hardinne have done all we can. It is up to you now. Bring our people home, Captain Archer. Bring them home."

* * *

To be Continued in Chapter 8 


End file.
